


Unlikely Saviors

by rummy_cat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Cersei Lannister Bashing, Cunnilingus, Domestic Violence, F/M, Femdom, Fluff and Smut, Implied Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Jaime Lannister is not so dumb, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Light Dom/sub, Minor Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Oral Sex, POV Jaime Lannister, POV Sandor Clegane, POV Sansa Stark, POV Tyrion Lannister, POV Tywin Lannister, Purple Wedding, SanSan friendship, Sansa plays the Game, Smart Sansa Stark, Trauma, Tyrion Lannister is a Good Sibling, Tywin Lannister Being Tywin Lannister
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 62
Words: 233,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24184309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rummy_cat/pseuds/rummy_cat
Summary: Tywin Lannister takes Sansa Stark under his protection for purely selfish motives, not knowing her claws have become sharpened in order to survive Joffrey's wrath. What happens when Sansa claws away at Tywin's armor, revealing long-buried parts of him? Will he yield some of his legendary control?TySan with a sprinkling of SanSan.Fan praise for Unlikely Saviors:"It's the perfect fix for my TySan obsession""This is rapidly becoming one of my favorite GOT fics of all times.""This work is so devastatingly good! I adore the many different undercurrents and interactions you breathe life into for these characters!""I never thought I’d be into a Tywin/Sansa pairing, but lordy you have hooked me!!!""Your Tywin is so interesting - not soft in any way, very canon-accurate, but I still believe he cares for Sansa"
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Tywin Lannister & Sansa Stark, Tywin Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 673
Kudos: 1174





	1. A Petition

**Author's Note:**

> A little excerpt:  
> “Lord Hand, your consideration is most appreciated. I apologize for my earlier insolence,” Sansa sat at her new desk and began writing, leaving Tywin to metaphorically scratch his head. Somehow this wraith of a girl had him thoroughly befuddled. Every time he thought he knew her mind he was proven wrong. She somehow made every victory feel like a failure.  
> It would be so much easier if she was the vapid child Cersei and Joffrey made her out to be, but the more time he spent with her, the more intelligent he found her to be. Conversely, every encounter with his daughter and grandson only demonstrated just how inept they were.

**Sandor**

_He’s going to kill her._

_It’s never going to stop._

_He’s going to kill her._

Sandor repeated the silent chant as he climbed the stairs of the Tower of the Hand. He knew what he was doing could be considered treason, or at minimum betrayal, of the young king he was sworn to protect.

_I may lose my head or be thrown in the Black Cells._

It was not an irrational fear, but he continued walking slowly but surely up the spiral staircase because he knew the alternative was worse. Watching her die would be worse. He knew because he had been watching her die a slow death for over a year now, and it was killing him to bear witness to something so pure, so sweet, so beautiful have the life slowly drained from her.

And that’s just when he was on duty. What happened at night, when he wasn’t there, he could only imagine. He knew it is nothing good… knew because of the way the girl looked each morning.

He cursed himself for not doing more to get her out on the night of the battle. He went to her and offered to take her away from this stinking excuse for a capital and its shameful excuse for a king, but she refused. He tried to blame her… _If only she’d come, we’d be safe at Winterfell by now, or maybe in Essos, or at the Wall with her bastard brother._

But he knew she was right that night when she told him that she wouldn’t go with him, not because she didn’t trust him, or because she still harbored some affection for the boy king, but because she knew they’d not get far. Her copper tresses were like a beacon, and he had the most recognizable face in all the seven kingdoms. She was right – they would have been caught; he would have been tortured and killed, and she would have been returned to her life of torment, humiliation, and abuse, with even less freedom than she had before.

The truth was, it was easier to blame her, to think it was her fault for choosing to stay, but he knew that was wrong. He clung to that blame because it was the only trace of something that was not self-loathing of the purest form. Self-loathing for all the times he did nothing, said nothing, while the girl was beaten at Joffrey’s orders. Self-loathing for not knowing how to make it end. Self-loathing for having such a recognizable fucked-up face that he could never be anything but a burden to her should they try to run together.

Self-loathing for all the times he spoke to her harshly, cruelly, because it was the only way he knew.

Self-loathing for the thoughts he had of the girl, as if she needed another man lusting after her.

Self-loathing for not having the words to make her see she wasn’t just a toy for a king, that she still had worth. That she was better than every one of the buggers in the capital put together.

He pushed those thoughts away and repeated his mantra as he stood outside the door to the Hand’s solar. A guard announced him and five minutes later he was let in. The Great Lion sat behind his massive desk and stared at Sandor, who suddenly had second thoughts – what if his actions today would somehow cause the girl more harm? But no, that wasn’t possible… he reminded himself that it is only a matter of time before he would be called by the boy king to carry away her lifeless body like he once had to carry away the body of a whore the king had used for target practice with his new crossbow.

With a deep breath, Sandor began…

**Tywin**

In the twenty years Sandor Clegane had served House Lannister he’d never sought Tywin’s ear or counsel. Not once. Tywin had respect for people who didn’t waste his time and their breath with empty pleasantries or inconsequential matters. The Hound this type of person, so despite how busy Tywin was, he permitted him entry. Only now he was regretting the decision as the scarred beast of a man only returned his stare without speaking. Tywin appraised him a full minute before he finally spoke.

“Lord Hand, I’ve come to talk to you about the girl.”

“Which girl, Clegane?”

“The Stark girl.”

Tywin was confused and gestured for him to proceed.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of your grandson’s treatment of the girl…”

“I have not.”

The Hound stared at him in disbelief, then frustration – seemingly unhappy to have to explain something he thought Tywin should know.

“For as long as she’s lived in the Red Keep, Joffrey has taken pleasure in humiliating her, and even hurting her, often in front of the court, and often as retribution for the actions of her brother.”

Tywin huffed out a sigh, “That is certainly not how a lady of her nobility should be treated, however I fail to understand why it is a concern to you – or at least, why it is such a concern that you would seek me out directly to disclose it.”

The normally poised man looked at his feet, “It isn’t a concern to me, not truly, only King Joffrey’s torments have become much more severe since the Battle of the Blackwater – or rather, since his betrothal to Lady Sansa was ended in lieu of his match with Lady Margaery.”

Tywin nodded. Clearly for the Hound to call something ‘severe’ it was indeed a dire situation. The man had done his share of killing – men and women, and never showed any signs of remorse. He was as hardened as they come, which was why he was such a unique asset to House Lannister. With a single curt nod Tywin responded, “I shall speak to the King. Is that all?”

But Sandor Clegane didn’t move and seemed to have more to say.

“Speak or leave, Clegane, my time is valuable.”

“With all due respect, my lord, and I realize your grandson respects you more than most, but his mother and uncle have already informed him of the girl’s value, and yet his abuse only intensifies. Quite bluntly, I believe it is only a matter of time before he kills the girl, and I’m sure you do not want to see such a valuable trade piece disposed of so wastefully.”

Tywin knew when someone was using his own motives to their own advantage. Clegane didn’t care one whit about trade pieces... his motives to prevent the girl’s death were of a personal nature. Tywin narrowed his eyes and considered the man’s words. He knew the Stark girl was quite beautiful, was it possible she had manipulated the Hound to speak on her behalf? Was this a ploy to see the girl returned to the north? Had she promised him something in return? A marriage? A lordship?

But in all the years he’d known the man, Sandor Clegane was never one to employ deceit, nor was he easily manipulated. He was deadly, yes, but with a sword. He wasn’t one to play the game of thrones. By all accounts, he despised the game and the players with equal passion. Was it possible the Hound held some affection for the girl? Some attraction to her?

Tywin realized he was tapping his fingers on the desk. He stilled his hands and nodded. “Your concerns have been heard. Thank you for bringing this threat to my attention. You are dismissed.”

With a slight bow the large man exited. Once alone again Tywin rubbed his forehead. When he returned to King’s Landing the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, he knew he’d resume his past role of Hand to the King. What he did not know was how neglected everything had been. Before his death King Robert managed to rack up significant debts not just to Tywin himself but also the Iron Bank. Tywin knew Robert was not the only one to blame… Petyr Baelish seemed to have completely manipulated the King into believing the finances of the Crown were healthy.

_Idiot Robert, trusting that whoremonger to begin with was foolish, but never checking things for himself was the definition of stupidity and ineptitude._

The woes went beyond the Crown itself. The smallfolk of the Crownlands were starving; violence was rampant; there was no love for King Joffrey or his mother – Tywin’s daughter – Queen Regent Cersei. Joffrey’s new betrothed, Margaery Tyrell, would bring the Crown wealthy allies and earn back some of the respect from the smallfolk, but it was too little too late. Tywin had been working from dawn to dusk every day – sometimes even longer – to try to clean up the mess he’d inherited. Some days he wanted to go back to his beloved Casterly Rock and leave the Crown to the vultures, but he knew in the long run that would hurt him as well as the realm. At best, he’d never receive the debt he was owed. At worst, the current war who go on endlessly, with new players entering the game, and eventually someone would succeed in displacing Joffrey. The boy was a fool, but he was Tywin’s blood. As long as Joffrey sat the throne, Tywin had some control over the realm. Joffrey’s insolence was a small price to pay to avoid seeing the Targaryen girl on the Iron Throne. Her first act as Queen would be to summarily round up and execute everyone with the name Baratheon or Lannister.

In truth, with all these pressing concerns, Tywin had given little thought to the Stark girl. But he recently gained knowledge that few others possessed – her value was about to increase substantially. In just under a moon, if all went according to plan, she’d be the last living Stark, other than her bastard brother sworn to the Night’s Watch. The man who married Sansa Stark would rule the largest of the Seven Kingdoms. His seed would mingle with a bloodline eight thousand years old – his children would be the undisputed heirs to Winterfell. Tywin could only imagine what someone like Roose Bolton, Euron Greyjoy, or Willas Tyrell would pay for her hand…

Yet Tywin was interested in the long game rather than an opportunity for quick profit. The plan he’d been working toward for most of his life was to create a dynasty; to see Lannister blood ruling in each of the Seven Kingdoms, not to mention on the throne itself. Ideally, Tywin would like to see his son Jaime take the girl as bride and claim his birthright as Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock upon Tywin’s demise. But Jaime had time and time again refused to take what was his by rights, and worse yet, his whereabouts were currently unknown after being stupidly released by Catelyn Stark against her son’s wishes. What was initially good news was now a source of dread for the old lion… at least as the Stark’s valuable prisoner his son was safe, his whereabouts known. When a moon passed and he’d still not made it back to King’s Landing Tywin knew something unfortunate had happened.

Tywin swallowed. It did no good to worry about Jaime’s location or state of being. He had to have faith his son was alive and on his way to King’s Landing that very moment.

Tywin once again let his thoughts drift to the Starks. In three weeks, Robb and his mother would attend a Frey wedding at the Twins. Walder Frey had informed Tywin by letter of his intent to betray the Starks, seeking retribution against Robb Stark – the so-called King in the North – for breaking his vow to marry one of Walder’s granddaughters. Walder Frey and Roose Bolton, one of Robb Stark’s bannermen, would massacre both Robb and his mother Catelyn as well as any men who traveled with them to the wedding – which would include several other Northern Lords. In one night the war would be over.

Frey only needed permission from Tywin Lannister on behalf of the King to move forward with his plan. Tywin truly didn’t need Frey’s help – the Lannister forces were now winning the war decidedly – but Frey’s action would end the war swiftly and with minimal bloodshed on both sides. Keeping his hands clean, Tywin sent the only logical response: _“The King values your loyalty and admires your efficiency.”_

Three weeks until the Crown would officially be warden to the most sought-after maiden in the entire realm. The girl should be locked in a room with a dozen Septas inside and a dozen guards outside. Instead, the fool that Tywin was ashamed to call both his King and grandson was abusing her severely enough that the hardest man in the realm felt it necessary to make a plea for the girl’s safety.

After only a few moments of thought, Tywin called for his guard, Ser Addam Marbrand, to bring him Sansa Stark.


	2. First Meeting

**Sansa**

**Two months ago…**

The day Joffrey broke off his engagement to her, Sansa cried tears of joy, which she disguised as tears of sorrow. _I’m free! I don’t have to marry that monster! He has Lady Margaery now; he will leave me alone._

Sansa felt sorry for Margaery, though she barely knew the girl. But at least Margaery had her family there to protect her – her father, grandmother, and her brother who was a renowned knight. Sansa had no one. The only two people who even looked at her as a human being were Tyrion Lannister and Sandor Clegane. One belonged to the richest and most powerful family in the realm, the other was the fiercest fighter in the realm, and yet both were completely powerless to protect her from Joffrey’s never-ending appetite to inflict pain.

Her joy was short-lived. That very night Ser Meryn woke her from her slumber and practically dragged her to Joffrey’s bedchamber. She knew immediately it would not be a pleasant visit. She felt sick with the realization that Joffrey somehow viewed the end of their betrothal as permission to do whatever gruesome things he refrained from doing to her previously. She didn’t understand why he’d take liberties now that he didn’t take before, except for one possible explanation: beneath all his ugliness, did he have some minute shred of respect for a woman that would be his wife and bear his children?

Meryn Trant entered the King’s chamber with her and shoved her toward Joffrey before barring the door. She turned to see that Trant stood at the door, but instead of wearing his placid Kingsguard expression he had a twisted grin on his face, and his eyes were gleaming with something Sansa feared was either lust or hatred – perhaps both.

“Ahh, Sansa, you’re looking lovely this evening.”

She crossed her arms in front of her chest, suddenly aware that her breasts were visible through her thin sleeping gown.

“Don’t be shy, my lady. It’s only me here, well, and Ser Meryn, but he won’t bite…”

“Your grace,” she said with a calmness that did not express her inner panic, “is something amiss?”

“Not at all, everything is just as it should be, in fact… you see, mother told me how important it is that Lady Margaery be treated as the Queen she will someday be. Apparently, her family are rather influential,” Joffrey waved a hand in the air, clearly uninterested in politics, “In no uncertain terms, mother encouraged me to find myself a good clean whore to take my pleasure in and leave Margaery alone. And I must admit that once Maragaery is big with my son I will need to find someone else to satisfy my urges, anyway...”

Sansa’s stomach dropped, but she tried to reason with the boy, “I’m sure there are any number of professional lovers that would be honored to keep your company, your grace.”

“Indeed. Ser Meryn says all the whores fight for the right to be in my bed, but I’m afraid few of them pique my interest the way you do, dear Sansa.”

“B-but your grace, I’m not a whore, I could never please you like they could. I’m a high-born lady. I’m a ward of the Crown – your mother or grandfather will be seeking a Lord Husband for me and—”

Joffrey’s face reddened with anger, “Is my mother or grandfather the King?”

“No, but until you—”

“Until nothing. _I am the King_ , and I’ve decided in all my wisdom and graciousness that the greatest position you could hope for as a traitor to the Crown is to be the mistress of the King. Do you know how many women would be honored to have this position?”

“I am honored indeed, your grace. I am flattered, I only fear that your mother or—”

“Say that again and I’ll have Ser Meryn sew your mouth shut, which would be quite unfortunate since I have many plans for the pretty little hole.”

Sansa had learned long ago to distinguish the times when more words could save her from the times when they’d only raise Joffrey’s ire. This situation was the latter, so she clamped her mouth shut and steeled herself for whatever was coming.

Once satisfied he would get no more resistance from her, Joffrey sat down in a large chair that made him look all the more childlike. “You’re overdressed, my lady,” he said aloofly.

_Just give him what he wants. It’s always easier if you don’t fight it…_

Only what he wanted in the past was her tears, her bruises, her fear. Now he wanted her body, her maidenly virtue. Though she supposed the same rule applied: the more she resisted, the more he would make this hurt. Without a word, she unlaced the neckline of her gown and pushed it down until it pooled around her feet. Joffrey stared at her now naked breasts, licking his lips like a dog waiting for scraps at the table. “Still overdressed.”

She closed her eyes and pushed down her smallclothes, stepping out of them. She stood naked as her nameday, facing Joffrey, back turned to Meryn Trant who let out an audible groan behind her, “Your grace has made an excellent choice in companion.”

“Of course I have, Ser Meryn… if only she had the sense to _kneel_ before her King, we may have to teach her some manners...”

**Present day...**

Sansa had only seen the Great Lion a few times at court, but even from a distance he was an imposing man – tall, long-legged, broad-shouldered, with green catlike eyes that looked through you, not at you.

Being alone in a room with him, with only the width of a wooden desk between them, Sansa felt downright petrified. Whatever she had done to earn the attention of this man she did not know – she only knew that Tywin Lannister did not waste time or energy on trivial issues or people. Knowing she was no longer marriageable thanks to Joffrey clued her in that this would not be a meeting to learn what Lord she’d been promised to. More likely, she was here to learn of a different fate. If she had to guess, it would be that they would be executing her as a traitor, to make an example of her. She was here to be coerced into making some type of confession or statement.

Her heart hammered in her chest, but she knew on the outside she looked calm. She had learned long ago how to make her face a mask and felt almost proud of how well she did so, except she was now certain she was looking at the only person in the realm who could best her in this craft. She once again steeled herself; there was nothing he could do to her that hadn’t already been done. A fool’s courage overtook her. _If I’m going to die, I’m going out as a wolf, not a sheep._

Taking the opportunity his silent appraisal of her presented, she chose to speak first, “Lord Hand, I would assume since you summoned me to your solar that _you_ had something to say.”

He ignored her obvious attempt at gaining the upper hand and continued staring at her, though what he saw she did not know. His eyes wandered up and down her body, but not with the lust most men held for her. He was surveying her. It somehow felt even more intrusive than the disgusting way Joffrey’s Kingsguard looked at her.

She shifted uncomfortably, regretting how nervous the motion must have made her appear.

After another moment’s consideration he rose and moved to the door. She expected him to summon a guard or servant but instead she heard the loud click of the bolt sliding into place.

_He’s locking me in here with him._

Nausea claimed her as she finally knew what this meeting was about. Joffrey must have bragged about his exploits with Sansa, and his grandfather wanted a taste.

_A man like him probably thinks himself too good for whores – but a highborn mistress…_

Sansa swallowed the panic and for the dozenth time this month she steeled herself for what was inevitably coming. She’d become quite adept at shutting off her mind during her encounters with Joffrey. It was hard to put into words, not that she had anyone to tell, but it almost felt like leaving her body – like being there without _being there._

“Stand,” a distant voice behind her commanded. She complied, mechanically.

Then warm fingers pushed her hair away from her back. Then they unlaced her dress. Then her corset. They were neither rough nor kind.

Her dress was now around her waist. She didn’t bother holding it up to cover her breasts, knowing the effort would be futile. She stood completely aloof, knowing what was coming and not caring – not now. Like a note in a bottle she would stash it away and deal with it some day in the future… if she had a future.

But there was no more movement; there were no more words. The Great Lion was still standing behind her. He did not pull down her skirt or turn her around. He did not bend her over his desk. As far as she could tell he was only staring at her back.

_My back! He must not have been expecting it…_

Sansa laughed frantically when she realized that her physical appearance might be enough to deter Tywin Lannister from taking this encounter any further. It was comical, truly – Joffrey’s abuse was now saving her from having to lay with the lion.

“What is so amusing?” he asked in a tone Sansa was certain held insult.

“I see you and your grandson don’t share the same desires. He enjoys seeing blood and bruises, you don’t. Let me guess, you were hoping for alabaster skin, as pure and white as the snows of my homeland.”

With a boldness she did not know she possessed she turned around to face the man, knowing she finally had the upper hand. She would make him see all of it, make him totally repulsed.

He flinched but did not look away at the sight of her scarred belly, or the ugly bite mark just above her right breast, or the handprint-shaped bruise on her neck.

“See anything you like?” she asked sardonically.

His eyes darkened and he spun her around roughly. He hastily redressed her.

“I assume our meeting is concluded, my lord?”

“It is not. Sit.”

She was surprised by his words. He clearly wasn’t going to take pleasure in her body, what could he want from her?

He took his seat again across from her, “When?”

“When what?”

“When did this begin?”

It took her a moment to realize he was referring to Joffrey’s abuse, though why he seemed to only be learning of this now had her puzzled.

“After my father was murdered… I mean, executed, my lord.”

“Enough with the barbs, Lady Sansa. Speak as a mature adult or you can return to the Hell you’ve been living in.”

“Not much of a threat, my lord, since I’ll be returning to that Hell no matter _how_ I speak to you.”

He appraised her again, searching for something in her eyes. She knew he’d only see her mask.

“Does my daughter know the extent of her son’s _treatment_ of you?”

Sansa arched an eyebrow, “Everyone knows, my lord. Except you, apparently. And here I’ve been believing you’re the most well-informed man in the realm...”

“Enough!” he slammed his fist down so hard that Sansa jumped, then cursed herself inwardly for letting him see her reaction.

The man composed himself quickly and continued, all traces of rage gone from his voice, “Since your betrothal was dissolved, has his behavior changed?”

She snorted, “It’s gotten worse.”

His jaw worked back and forth, and Sansa finally took the opportunity to observe the man. She could see the resemblance to Cersei and Jaime. High cheekbones, straight nose, strong jaw and brow, green eyes. His hair was thinning but still more blond than white or gray. He had frown lines around his mouth, but his eyes were almost youthful. She realized this meant he did not bear the tell-tale wrinkles that come from years of laughter and smiling – not that it was a surprise.

She could tell why men were intimidated by him. His manner was so stern it seemed he was completely devoid of humor, compassion, and kindness. For a brief moment Sansa felt sorry for Cersei and understood how the Queen could be so cold, but then she realized that neither Jaime nor Tyrion seemed to share her demeanor.

She was utterly lost in thought when his next question came in the form of two simple words, “Your virtue?”

She looked down at her hands, knowing she’d be sealing her own fate by answering truthfully, but also knowing that lying would only buy her time as a maester or septa could confirm that her maidenhead had been obliterated.

“Nonexistent,” she answered, trying not to reveal her shame.

He stared at her again and it gave Sansa more opportunity for contemplation. Was there anything she could salvage of her situation? She put herself in Tywin’s position and imagined the options he was considering. Her greatest fear was that he would deem her worthless now and allow Joffrey to keep her as his ‘mistress’. The benefit to Tywin would be that it would likely keep Joffrey from harming Margaery Tyrell, who no doubt held great value to the old lion thanks to her rich and powerful family.

He could marry her to some lesser lord, one who isn’t in the position to complain about her physical state. But how would that benefit the Crown or House Lannister? Should her brother Robb perish in the current war, she’d be the sole heir to Winterfell and her lord husband would gain control of the largest kingdom. No, he would not let her go as long as there was a good chance that Robb could die.

So who could he marry her to that would allow Tywin to continue to control her, but who wouldn’t object to a bride who’d been broken in by Joffrey? She thought through the possibilities, certain that Tywin was doing the same…

There was Tommen, who was set to inherit the Stormlands when he came of age. The boy was sweet, and Sansa was fond of him, but he was several years younger than her, and quite docile. Would Tywin trust the mild-mannered boy not to be manipulated by Sansa? She thought not…

Then there were Tywin’s own sons. Ser Jaime was missing, and anyway was sworn to the Kingsguard and, if rumors were true, endlessly loyal to his sister Cersei. Tyrion Lannister – the dwarf – would not be a bad choice. Sansa knew he’d be kind to her as a husband, but he and Tywin did not get along, and she thought Tywin probably didn’t trust him entirely. Tywin would see the risk that Tyrion and Sansa would go to the North and rally her armies, taking up her brother’s role should he die.

Then there were vassals loyal to House Lannister, such as Lord Tarly from Horn Hill. He had a marriageable son, Dickon, but Sansa did not know enough about Tywin’s relationship with the Tarlys. There was also the Tyrell heir, Willas, but Sansa got the impression that while they were allies in the current war, there was little love between the Tyrells and Lannisters.

Eager to learn her fate, Sansa shared her thoughts with the Great Lion, seeing no need for secrecy…

**Tywin**

This must have been the longest Tywin had listened to someone talk in decades, and the person he was listening to was but a girl. A girl his daughter led him to believe was as empty-headed as they come, but he was now realizing such was not the case. She systematically listed the benefits and drawbacks of the possible choices Tywin could make for her.

He watched her as she spoke, noting her mannerisms, her choice of words, and her overall demeanor. She carried herself with all the poise to be expected from a young woman as highborn as she, and none of the fear that he’d expect from one who had suffered so much physical and emotional abuse. Her eyes were alert, her back was straight. He noticed the obvious resemblance to her mother, who he remembered to be a beautiful woman, but with a certain coldness in her eyes. The girl before him somehow looked _warm_ , though he knew not how that could be. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent. The veins in her hands were a perfect match to the blue of her eyes. Half her head was in the path of the afternoon sun rays coming through the window. The half in the shade was a light auburn while the half in the sun was a golden coppery blond.

_The colors of House Lannister…_

She concluded her speech with a question, “So, my lord, now that your grandson has seen fit to diminish my value so greatly, what will you do with me?”

He tapped his fingers on his desk. The girl – whether she realized it or not – was engaging him in a power play. He owed her no answers and no explanations – giving her either would be giving her some power.

He rose and strode to the door, exiting into the hallway to address Ser Marbrand out of earshot of the girl, “Have Lady Sansa’s maids bring her possessions to one of the family quarters in this Tower. And summon Sandor Clegane immediately.”

He returned to his desk and resumed his work. Without meeting her eyes he addressed her, “There are numerous books on the shelf behind you. Please entertain yourself quietly.” He knew his command confused her, but she complied, nonetheless. He peered up only long enough to see the book she had chosen. _History of the Houses of the Westerlands._ Her choice pleased him, though he would not show it.

A half hour later Sandor Clegane entered, and Tywin noticed the look of surprise on both his and Sansa’s faces when their eyes met. Clearly the girl did not ask Clegane to speak on her behalf – he did it of his own volition, which reinforced Tywin’s confidence in what he was about to do.

“Clegane, I am reassigning you effective immediately. You will no longer be the King’s shield; you will be Lady Sansa’s shield. She is being moved into the Tower of the Hand as we speak. You, too, will move into one of the guard’s chambers. Ser Marbrand will assign you three Lannister men. Lady Sansa is not to leave the Tower of the Hand with less than all four guards, including yourself. Two men must be posted outside her quarters day and night whenever she occupies them. You have permission to use any force necessary to protect your charge from anyone who seeks to harm her. Am I _abundantly_ clear?”

The man’s only question was the obvious one, “Anyone?”

Tywin answered emphatically, “An-y-one.”

Sandor nodded, “Aye, my lord, your orders are clear. I presume you will inform King Joffrey of my new assignment.”

“You presume correctly.”

Tywin’s eyes now turned to the Stark girl, who looked dumbfounded. He had to fight back a smirk as he now addressed her, “Lady Sansa, you will spend your days in my solar when I am here. I suggest you spend your time studying since it appears my daughter has neglected to provide for your continued education during your time as her ward. When I oversee court you will accompany me, along with your guards. Do you understand?”

“Yes. You wish me to be in your presence every waking hour, my lord.”

He took a deep breath, realizing when put in those words it sounded excessive, “Not when I depart the Keep for some reason, but otherwise, yes.”

He watched her chew at her lip, “If something is unclear, my lady, now is the time to say so.”

“Not unclear, Lord Hand, but if you are doing this to put an end to Joffrey’s treatment of me, your efforts will most assuredly fall short.”

Tywin bit back his anger at the ungrateful attitude that was on full display, “And why do you say that, my lady?”

“Two guards outside my door? He will come with all seven of his Kingsguard.”

“You are forgetting there are at least dozen Lannister guards between the main entrance and the family quarters of this Tower at all times. Your two guards are merely the last line of defense.”

“I am aware, I counted each man on my way up. They are dispersed, though. Four at the main entrance, two at each floor, plus the two outside this solar.”

“So your fear is that my grandson will order his men to kill over a dozen of _mine_ just to gain access to you? That would be an act of war against his own blood, the boy may be foolish, but he is not suicidal.”

“As you say, my lord. I hope you are correct.”

The doubt in her voice was insulting, “If you disapprove of my plan you are welcome to return to your chamber in the family quarters, with _no_ guards.”

She shook her head, “I am grateful for your efforts, my lord. I apologize for questioning your judgment; experience has taught me not to underestimate King Joffrey’s recklessness.”

“Careful, Lady Sansa. I may be protecting you from my grandson’s baser urges, but that does not give you permission to slander your King.”

She nodded her understanding.

“Now, Lady Sansa, would you be so kind as to tell me which of the current members of the Kingsguard have personally taken part in your torment?”

“All of them.”

He couldn’t contain his reaction of surprise. His eyes darted to the Hound, but the girl clarified, “Sandor Clegane is not one of the Kingsguard, Lord Hand.”

Tywin nodded even as anger boiled beneath the surface. He dismissed Clegane and Sansa went back to reading quietly.


	3. Snapped

**Sandor**

_Well that didn’t go as planned._

Sandor now stood sentry outside Tywin Lannister’s solar. His new charge was still in the room with the man and would be for the rest of the day and every day to follow. Sandor knew Joffrey’s reaction to having his loyal dog reassigned to protect his favorite plaything would not go over well.

_The little bird is right, Joffrey will be desperate to get to her. If the Old Lion thinks he can keep her safe forever he is in for a rude awakening._

Sandor was not naïve or stupid; he knew it was Tywin Lannister who pulled the strings in the capital. His money paid for most of the guards and watchmen currently employed in and around the Red Keep, but Joffrey was too stupid to appreciate that. As he stood now alongside Addam Marbrand and another Lannister guard Sandor felt certain of only one thing: sooner or later, I’m going to have to choose between my charge and my king.

He knew the choice he’d make, and also knew it would condemn him to death. He’d be a Kingslayer, and even Tywin Lannister wouldn’t be able to protect him from Cersei’s wrath. It occurred to Sandor that this may be Tywin’s plan to rid himself of the troublesome young king while keeping his hands clean. Sandor didn’t like feeling used, but he was in no position to defy the man and strangely, he didn’t want to if it would mean not being there to protect the girl.

With a sigh, he gave up on worrying about his fate. He would do his duty as always, and for a change he would be killing for someone who was worthy of his loyalty. It was as good a death as someone like him could hope for.

**Sansa**

That evening, Sansa looked around her new quarters. They were smaller than her former bedchamber in the main family keep, but the décor was more to her taste. She had a small balcony and her own garderobe, which was a pleasant surprise. Her few clothes and personal belongings had been moved here already, as promised.

She wanted to feel relieved that she was further from Joffrey’s reach, but she felt only disquieted. With Joffrey, she knew what to expect. She knew to expect him to summon her every few days, and she knew what each summons would entail – and knew she would survive it.

Now she was under the Great Lion’s paw and had no idea what to expect. Did he move her here simply to protect an asset? Or did he have more nefarious intentions for her – perhaps waiting for her wounds to heal before claiming her as his own mistress?

But neither of those explained why he wanted her to spend her days studying in his solar while he worked. Why care about the education of an enemy, or a mistress?

Her head was aching when Sandor announced that two seamstresses were here for her.

She opened the door and before she could tell them that she had no knowledge of their visit, two older women, who appeared to be sisters, burst in. Without preamble they told her to dress down to her smallclothes and slip. They ignored her bruises, cuts, and scars as they thoroughly measured her, the entire time chatting and laughing with one another in a way that helped Sansa feel more relaxed.

_At least there are two people in this Hellhole of a city that are happy._

Next they held up a number of fabric swatches to her skin and hair, mumbling to one another. They seemed to agree that Sansa’s best colors were periwinkle blue, dark green, blush pink, dove gray, and midnight black.

When they held up the crimson swatch against her neck, they both scrunched their noses, “Not horrible, but clashes a bit with her hair.” Next they held up a shimmery gold fabric that Sansa couldn’t help but gasp at. The women shared her reaction, smiling at one another as if sharing a secret.

“Did Lord Lannister send you to me?”

“Aye, m’lady,” the older of the women said.

That knowledge was little benefit to Sansa. He would want her looking her best whether his plans were to shop her to a husband or to enjoy her company on a personal basis. Sansa felt tears pricking at her eyes, but she wished them away. Whatever her fate would be, she would need to be strong. Now was not the time to indulge in self-pity.

As the women packed up the fabric swatches another knock was heard at the door.

_Who now?!_

At her permission a young maester was let in just as the pair of women exited. He bowed his head, “Lady Sansa, it is a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you during my brief time in the capital.”

Overwhelmed by all the sudden and unexpected attention, Sansa gave a less than ladylike response, “I doubt that very much, Maester --?”

“Oh, apologies, my lady. Maester Lantell.”

“You’re from the Westerlands, near Lannistport.”

The maester offered a genuine smile, “You know your houses, my lady.”

She felt like he was patronizing her, “Learning the noble and minor houses of each kingdom is the most basic education for a castle-born lady.”

He blushed at her light scolding, but to his credit the young man spoke up for himself, “Of course, my lady, I meant no insult, it’s only that in my experience so many young lords and ladies forget this information as soon as their lessons are concluded.”

For reasons she wasn’t conscious of, she _wanted_ to be angry at him, but he was making it difficult.

“And how much _experience_ do you have, maester?”

He blushed again, “I admit I’m rather new to my trade. I completed my studies at the Citadel just over two years ago and have been Lord Lannister’s personal maester since then.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes. Tywin Lannister didn’t strike her as a man who would employ just anyone to see to his personal health. Clearly this young man had earned his place, despite his somewhat awkward conduct. Perhaps he was simply unaccustomed to tending to young women. Either way, Sansa was silently grateful that she wouldn’t have to be treated by old Maester Pycelle, who seemed to take a bit too much pleasure in examining Sansa whenever Cersei demanded her virtue be inspected.

“May I ask why you’re here, Maester Lantell? I was not told to expect you.”

“Ah, yes. My lady, Lord Lannister asked me to give you an examination.”

Sansa felt her blood rise. She freely admitted to the Great Lion to losing her maidenhead – not that she had any choice in the matter – so why would he send a maester? Did he think she was lying? If anything, a young woman would claim to be a maiden when she wasn’t – not the other way around.

She gritted her teeth, “I have already told Lord Lannister that my maidenhead is very much _not_ intact. I will not be subjected to yet another _examination_ for no reason other than to be reminded who is in control. I am fully aware of my place here.”

Despite her harsh words and tone she looked up to see the young man was looking back at her kindly. He appeared quite genuine in his concern as he continued, “My lady, you have mistaken my intent. I am not here to subject you to any humiliation. Lord Lannister expressed concern about certain _injuries_ you’ve received that don’t seem to have been tended to adequately – or at all.”

She stared at him in shock. It shouldn’t surprise her that Tywin Lannister would want to protect his trade piece, or whatever she was to the man, but she’d become so unaccustomed to any type of care or compassion that she was suspicious of it.

Noticing her concern Lantell continued, “Perhaps you could just show me the worst of the wounds. You needn’t undress fully.”

Sansa was still not mollified but in truth she was in quite a bit of pain. The lashes on her back were a constant source of discomfort, and the bite on her chest ached and felt warm to the touch – she knew that wasn’t a good sign. Finally she nodded.

Lantell looked relieved, “Would you care to summon a maid?”

“No!” Sansa replied too fervently. She’d become less and less reliant on the assistance of handmaidens. It was humiliating enough to be subjected to Joffrey’s abuse, but to have another woman or women look at her with pity – and sometimes even disgust – was more than she could bear.

She regained her composure, “Maester Lantell, if you would just help me untie my dress and corset.” She wasn’t sure whether her request was proper and didn’t care.

For the second time that day Sansa stood still as a strange man appraised her wounds. To his credit, Lantell was efficient with his work and managed to show neither pity nor coldness. He applied a salve to her back wounds which were healing well, he said, thanks to not being overly deep.

When he saw the bite above her breast he sucked in air, “This is not good. It needs to be thoroughly cleaned. The human mouth is a filthy thing; bites will almost always fester if not properly and promptly cleaned. Do you have any other similar wounds?”

She shook her head.

“Good, because I’m afraid this will be rather painful.”

She snorted at him. Her entire life had been nothing but pain, “Do what you must, maester. You needn’t worry about me.”

…

Later, as Lantell packed up his case of supplies, Sansa noticed his mouth open and close several times.

“Say what’s on your mind, maester.”

He looked relieved to have her permission, “Admittedly I’m not the most experienced maester in the realm, but I’ve never seen someone so composed while having a wound reopened and cleansed. I’m intrigued – did you feel no pain at all?”

Sansa shrugged, trying to put into words something she didn’t fully understand herself, “I feel the pain in my body, but not in my mind.”

“I don’t understand.”

She sighed, “I know the pain is there, but the part of me that cares about it is… absent, I suppose.”

“Fascinating,” he shook his head, “fascinating.”

He produced a small jar of herbs and instructed her to a brew a tea, saying that a servant would be along shortly with a tea platter, “It’s a rather foul-tasting brew, I’m afraid, but you may sweeten it with honey. You may experience abdominal cramping and bleeding in as little as a few hours. If you don’t, take it again tomorrow morning. I will be back to check on you tomorrow after the evening meal.”

She stared at the dried herbs now in her hand, “This is moontea?” 

“Yes… eh, have you used it before?”

_I could be pregnant with Joffrey’s bastard._

It hadn’t even occurred to her before now that she could be with child.

_How fucking stupid!_

She did a quick calculation. Joffrey came to her for the first time just over two moons ago, and she hadn’t bled since then.

Suddenly she was sweating, and a dull hum sounded in her ears. She could feel the blood whooshing through every vein and artery. Her hands were numb and stiff as she stared down at them in her lap. The maester was saying something but she did not hear him. She stood up and was vaguely aware of her chair toppling over behind her, but all she could see was red, all she could feel was heat, all she could hear was some woman yelling – no, screaming – at the top of her lungs.

**Sandor**

Rushing into his charge’s room, Sandor and the other guard found one terrified maester and one raving-mad Sansa Stark. She was hurling various objects against the hearth wall, shattering glass cups and goblets, a pitcher, a basin, and a vase by the time Sandor’s long legs crossed the room to her. She kicked and screamed and spat as he wrapped his arms around her from behind, pinning hers down at her sides. She threw her head back and almost caught him in the chin.

The other guard stood wide-eyed, taking in the scene.

“I hate him! I hate him!” she yelled.

“Who, girl?”

“Joffrey, that fucking—"

Sandor clamped a hand over her mouth, glad it only took one of his long arms to keep the slender girl wrapped up. He looked to the maester, “Can’t you give her something?”

The young maester stared at him, “I can, if she’ll take it.”

He uncovered her mouth, “Little bird, the maester is going to give you something to help you sleep, alright?”

“No! Let me go! Let me go!”

Sandor was clueless as to how to calm her. He’d never seen her in this state – not after watching her father’s execution, not after learning of her brothers’ deaths, not after being beaten by Joffrey’s Kingsguard…

He snarled at the maester, “What happened? What did you do to her?”

If the man’s pants were still dry Sandor would be impressed, “Nothing, I only treated her wounds, and she was fine through all of it, even when it was painful, it was only after I…”

“After you _what_?”

The man swallowed, “When I gave her moontea, she got a funny look in her eyes and next thing she was like _this_ ,” he motioned to the girl still bucking and kicking to get free from Sandor’s iron hold.

Cold dread washed over Sandor. _That fucking blond cunt. I’ll fucking kill him._

But his revenge would have to wait. Right now he had to figure out how to calm her before she woke the whole tower. He called the other guard over, “Take her,” he pushed her into the other man’s arms so her back was to his chest just as Sandor had been holding her. Sandor leaned forward and cupped her cheeks in both his hands, “Little bird, look at me,”

She threw her head back, avoiding his eyes, “No, no!” she was crying now, sobbing to be precise. With each sob her little body racked in the guard’s arms.

Sandor grasped her head more firmly and held her until she met his eyes, “It’s fucked up, little bird. You didn’t deserve any of it, and it happened anyway. But it’s over now. It’s over…”

“It’s never over, he’ll never stop!”

“It is over. You’re safe here. I’ll fucking kill anyone that tries to hurt you. You hear me? Hmm?”

She still only cried, so he continued, “Listen, girl. You going to let him win? The fucking cunt isn’t worth your tears or your anger or your pain. Don’t fucking give it to him. You’re a fucking wolf.”

He knew she was coming to her senses based on her response, “I thought I was a bird, a stupid little bird.”

“Ah fuck, I just say that to piss you off. You’re a fucking wolf. A wolf in a cage but not forever, girl. You got pent up energy like every caged thing has. You let it out tonight and then some, now it’s time to stop. Don’t let him win by continuing to hurt you even when you’re out of his reach. Do you hear me?”

She got eerily quiet now and her red rimmed eyes bore right into his in a way that made him flinch, “You should have let me kill him that day…”

He clamped a hand over her mouth again and looked up at the guard. He’d have to deal with him later. “Girl, speaking like that is a good way to get us both killed. I was hoping to keep my head a little longer, ugly as it may be.”

Her natural compassion and goodness took over, “You’re not ugly Sandor. I’ve seen ugliness, I see it all around me every day – but not in you. It’s hidden behind pretty eyes and fair skin, but I see it.”

“So do I, little bird… now if we let you go will you stop throwing things? Will you take what the maester gives you so you can sleep?”

“I don’t want it… if Joffrey comes when I’m drugged—”

“He won’t come. He won’t get to you here, little bird.” Sandor knew there was no guarantee the young king wouldn’t be mad enough to storm the Tower with any number of guards, but the girl didn’t need to think about that now.

She finally nodded, looking exhausted by her emotional and physical outburst. He nodded at the guard who hesitantly released her. Sandor took both her elbows and led her to sit at the end of her bed.

As if nothing had happened, she sat straight-backed with a blank expression on her face, hands folded in her lap primly. She looked up only when the maester approached with a small vial, “My apologies, Maester Lantell, that you had to see that highly unladylike display. It shan’t happen again.”

He met Sandor’s eyes with a confused look. Sandor could only return the sentiment.

When the three men exited her chambers Sandor addressed them, “I hope it goes without saying that you didn’t hear a word she said.”

The guard nodded vigorously, not caring to be on the Hound’s bad side. The maester was less confident, “The Lord Hand will be expecting an update on her state; I’m not inclined to lie to the man.”

Sandor inched close, letting his height intimidate the smaller man, “Tell him about her state all you want… you know the _specific_ words I’m talking about.”

The man swallowed and nodded, but before he left, he had a question of his own, “That… _frenzy_ … does it happen often?”

Sandor shook his head, “Never, and believe me she’s had plenty of reason…”


	4. Gratitude

**Tywin**

According to Lantell, the girl would be in bed all day with severe cramps and nausea as her body expelled the seed his putrid grandson planted in her. It was the perfect opportunity to have the conversation he needed to have before the Hound’s shift at Joffrey’s side was supposed to start at noon.

Tywin stayed with Cersei and Joffrey in the small council room after the council departed. Joffrey was only present in that morning’s meeting because Tywin had requested it. The boy was like his late father Robert: completely uninterested in ruling his kingdom. But at least Robert was smart enough to limit his dalliances to whores and wenches. Raping a highborn lady, a valuable hostage, was the pinnacle of stupidity and recklessness.

Joffrey yawned, “Grandfather, why did I need to be present at this meeting? I don’t care one whit about the grain shortage. As far as I’m concerned, it’s good to thin the herd now and then, especially with ‘winter coming’ as you keep reminding me.”

“That _herd_ , your grace, outnumbers us a thousand to one. Desperate men take desperate actions. Having survived a riot yourself I’d think you’d appreciate that.”

“That’s what walls and archers are for, grandfather.”

“Killing the very farmers and laborers who sustain you is unwise. Unless you plan to till the fields yourself, I suggest you change your stance on the smallfolk.”

“Fine,” Joffrey waved a hand, “fix the grain issue, I still don’t see why I need to be involved with such matters, I could have been in court.”

Tywin resisted the temptation to point out that Joffrey’s version of court was the definition of frippery. It was more mummers show than ruling. But he had a more pressing topic to raise.

“As a matter of fact, your grace, there is a different matter I must address.” Tywin sighed and looked between his daughter and grandson, “Your _relationship_ with Lady Sansa is officially over.”

Joffrey sat up straight, the smug grin completely erased from his face, “What I do with Sansa is none of your concern.”

“It is every bit my concern. She is a warden of the Crown, and a quite valuable one at that.”

Joffrey pointed his finger at Tywin and was about to protest when Cersei stilled his hand and spoke, “Father, Joffrey enjoys Sansa’s company. I believe you are over-reacting. He is not yet married.”

Joffrey spoke up, “She’s the daughter and brother of a traitor! She’s a northern slut and I am the king. If I choose to keep her as my mistress, it shouldn’t be your concern.”

Tywin stood, “As we speak, she is bleeding out your wretched spawn, thanks to _me_ … a child that would have a claim to the throne should you die before producing a legitimate heir with Lady Margaery. Beyond that, you have severely devalued the girl as a trade piece while your uncle Jaime is still out there somewhere, and while we are still at war with the girl’s brother.”

“A war we are winning, thanks to Robb Stark’s stupidity in letting Uncle Jaime slip through his fingers.”

“A mistake the young wolf will not repeat if he recaptures your uncle!”

“The damage is already done, grandfather… I’ve already _devalued_ her, so why keep me away from her?”

Tywin noticed Cersei blanch at her son’s words, but she remained quiet. Tywin sighed and continued, “I’m keeping her away because at the rate you’re going the girl will be dead if I do not intercede. And a dead heir is worth less than nothing.”

Finally Cersei chimed in, but did not help matters, “Father, you can’t truly believe Joffrey would kill Sansa…”

“I can and I do… and if you saw what I have seen you would, too.”

“Fine! I’ll ease up, but I will continue to see her—”

Tywin slammed a fist down, “You’ll do NO SUCH THING. Her guards will cut down anyone who comes near her without her or my permission. That includes YOU.”

Joffrey stood, “She has no guards, you old fool!”

“She does now. Effective yesterday, Sandor Clegane is her personal guard, along with other Lannister men who’ve been instructed to put her safety above all else.”

“How dare you! The Hound belongs to me, mother gave him to me!”

“The Hound belongs to _me_ , he was on loan to your mother, then on loan to you. I pay him. He is a son of a noble house of the Westerlands, not the Crownlands.”

“You… You…” Joffrey struggled to find an adequate insult.

“I what, your grace?”

“You will pay for this. I will dismiss you as my Hand… no, I’ll arrest you!”

“Joffrey!” Cersei gasped, clearly torn between her loyalty to her father and loyalty to her son.

“If you are foolish enough to do either of those things, see how long you last. Lannister men outnumber Baratheon men three to one here since the latter left to join Stannis or Renly at the onset of the war. And it is _my_ gold that pays for those few men who remain loyal to you. In fact, I think I shall call due the debt the Crown owes me. Of course, you can’t afford to repay it, so I suppose I’ll just claim the throne and all the Crown’s lands and enterprises as recompense!”

“You can’t!”

“I _can_ , more easily than you think. But I’d rather not. You are my grandson and I do not seek to take what is yours, so please do not force me to. I have spent the last two moons watching you squander the very throne that your father and I – not to mention _Ned Stark_ – fought and bled for. The time for fun is over, grandson. Learn how to be worthy of that hideous crown you love to wear, or see it taken from you along with your head. That is not a threat, it is a warning. Every misstep you make is strengthening and emboldening those who seek to overthrow you.”

The boy’s face was so red Tywin was sure he’d been unconsciously holding his breath. His mother attempted to pacify him, “Joffrey, my sweet, there are many girls. You can have any number of girls; all grandfather is asking is that you leave Sansa Stark alone. I know she’s a traitorous little whore, but your grandfather is right – she is too valuable to treat so carelessly.”

Tywin wanted to scream at his daughter for her idiocy. Referring to the girl as a ‘traitorous whore’ was validating Joffrey’s treatment of the girl even as she tried to discourage him from the same.

Joffrey snarled, “Fine grandfather. I was getting tired of her cold cunt anyway.”

Tywin winced at his words. _How did such a foul creature come from Lannister blood?_

But Tywin knew the answer, though he’d never admit it even to himself. The boy was born mad just as so many Targaryens had been… Targaryens, who were known for inbreeding generation after generation. It was a well-kept secret known by possibly no living man except Tywin himself how many deformed babes were birthed by Targaryen mothers… born dead or so disfigured that the only merciful thing to do was to toss them into the ocean. Those who were born seemingly healthy turned out to be mad as often as they turned out to be sane; it was a coin flip.

And now his own grandson was in the same category. Tywin himself had married his cousin Joanna – not uncommon, and not a threat to his legacy if his own children – twins at that – hadn’t repeated his action. Tywin knew Joffrey was not Robert’s spawn but Jaime’s. It was a secret he would take to his grave, though at least half the realm already knew or suspected as much, thanks to Ned Stark’s prying.

Tywin heaved those thoughts out of his mind. For now he was satisfied that Joffrey would leave the Stark girl alone. Now Tywin just had to decide what to do with her…

\--------------------------------------------

Three days later the girl was well enough to join Tywin in his solar. When she walked in, he barely raised his eyes to greet her but involuntarily lifted his entire head when he saw her.

She was apparently wearing one of the new dresses he had commissioned for her upon realizing how inadequately she’d been provided for by his daughter. The dress was a rich dark blue that contrasted against her ivory skin and red hair, while bringing out the blue of her eyes.

If she noticed his reaction, she did not show it as she curtseyed her greeting, eyes downcast, and went to the bookshelf.

He couldn’t pry his eyes away from her long back which was visible thanks to hair being swept into a braid and draped over the front of her shoulder. A neat column of silver buttons traced her spin from the top of the collar at the nape of her neck all the way down to the small of her back, where the fitted bodice flared into a flowing skirt.

A slender finger traced each shelf until she found what she was looking for and stood on her tiptoes to reach a book on the highest shelf. Her movement further elongated her already statuesque figure.

Tywin finally pulled his eyes away just before she turned to find a seat. He saw her stop when she noticed the new chair. He had it brought in for her. Unlike all the other chairs in his solar it was plush and cushioned. He knew sitting against a wooden chair must be excruciating with her injuries, especially if they extended below her back as he suspected they did.

She did not meet his eyes and did not thank him, which he was glad for. She took her seat and began reading quietly. She spoke not a word all day and he often forgot she was there – even the sound of her turning pages eventually became ambient noise. Her presence was most noticeable anytime a visitor entered. Each man would enter, notice the girl, look at Tywin, then back at the girl, then back at Tywin. It was almost comical how her presence confused and unnerved them.

Early that afternoon his daughter paid him a visit, but the look on her face upon seeing Sansa could only be described as pure fury.

“Leave,” she commanded the girl, who rose obediently.

“Sit,” Tywin ordered. The girl looked between the Hand and his daughter before choosing to obey the former. He contained his satisfaction as she sat down and reopened her book, ignoring Cersei’s glare.

“Fine,” Cersei jutted her chin out defiantly, “if you don’t mind her hearing what I have to say, then I don’t. I came here to ask if the rumors are true – if you’ve taken Joffrey’s castoff as your mistress – though I suppose her presence here is answer enough.”

He looked to the girl, but she did not move a muscle. Tywin only sat back, lacing his fingers across his chest. He would not give merit to Cersei’s accusation by responding to it. His patience paid off as Cersei relented first, “Well, do you have nothing to say for yourself? Have you no shame?”

“The only person who should be ashamed of his _relationship_ with Lady Stark is your son. Tell me daughter, is Lady Stark dressed?”

“Yes,” Cersei rolled her eyes.

“And did you find us engaging in _friendly chatter_ when you entered?”

“No.”

“And what do you see me doing, at the moment?”

“Working, but—”

“Then what about this scene indicates to you a man in the company of his _mistress_?” Tywin arched his eyebrow.

“Then if the gossip is untrue, you should want to find those responsible for spreading such inappropriate rumors. The entire castle thinks you’re taking up with the Northern whore!”

“The lion doesn’t concern himself with the opinions of sheep. As someone who’s been the subject of several unfavorable _rumors_ over the years, I’d think you’d understand...”

She blushed at the allusion to her incestuous relationship with her twin brother.

“Further, Lady Stark is a guest of House Lannister and the Crown. I must insist you cease referring to her as a ‘whore’, a ‘traitor’, or any other such vile term.”

Cersei straightened her back, “Fine,” she spit, but instead of heading for the door she took four steps to stand before Sansa. Leaning forward she bared her teeth, “I’d tread lightly if I were you. You may fool everyone else with those innocent eyes, but you don’t fool me… I see you’ve learned how to wield the weapon between your legs.”

Sansa batted her eyes at Cersei and gave her a saccharine smile, “Thank you for noticing, your grace, though I’d have to be rather daft to have lived with you all this time and not taken the opportunity to learn from a master.”

With barely a second of reaction time Cersei smacked the girl hard across the face. Tywin rose, “That’s enough!” he bellowed.

Cersei did not look back as she exited the room.

For at least the hundredth time since the Battle of the Blackwater, Tywin Lannister regretted stepping foot back in this city. He looked to the girl, whose cheek was bright red. He expected to see a puddle of tears but instead found her already engrossed in her book, seemingly unperturbed by the recent events.

**Sandor**

After training for several hours, Sandor ascended the stairs of the Tower of the Hand to relieve the other guard stationed outside Tywin Lannister’s solar. It was late afternoon. Immediately upon receiving his new assignment Sandor decided he would take the overnight guard shift. He felt the girl was fairly safe during the day while she was with Tywin Lannister and his retinue of red cloaks. Joffrey was more likely to seek her out in the evening or late at night, so Sandor planned to spend the twelve-hour period starting at three o’clock each afternoon guarding his young charge. He would then grab a quick meal from the kitchen, sleep for six hours, and be at the training yard by ten, then leave to bathe and eat at two o’clock before proceeding to Tywin Lannister’s solar.

Today was the first full day the girl spent with the Old Lion, having been abed the past two. Sandor was surprised when, at five thirty, two servants brought a meal for two into the solar. 

At seven o’clock Tywin and Sansa finally emerged. Sansa curtsied and Tywin bowed his head slightly, “My lady.” He turned on his heels and proceeded with four guards at his back toward the stairwell that led up to his bedchamber, which Sandor knew to be the top floor of the tower.

When Sansa turned to face him, he immediately noticed the handprint mark on her left cheek.

“He hit you?” he growled, not caring that the other guard heard the anger in his voice.

“No, it was the Queen Regent.”

Sandor felt relief wash over him. He would hate to have rescued her from Joffrey’s grasp only to deliver her to another tormentor.

After escorting Sansa to her chambers, the two men stood outside her door, resigning themselves to a hopefully boring evening. The man to his left was not the young man present the night of Sansa’s outburst. This man was a seasoned knight named Andre Brax – a fourth son of a third son. He came highly recommended by Tywin’s sworn shield, Ser Addam Marbrand, for being good with a sword and honorable enough to be assigned to a female charge. Sandor had seen the man a few times in the training yard in the past two moons and knew that at least the sword skills were accurately described.

Only the man didn’t seem to know that the Hound didn’t like chit chat as he dared to ask a question not ten minutes after Sansa had entered her chambers, “How bad was it?”

“How bad was what?”

“How bad was it for her, with him?”

At least the man was smart enough not to say the King’s name out loud.

“ _Bad_.”

The man was quiet for several minutes before his next question came out, rather in the form of a statement, “Must have been _very_ bad for the Hound to be so concerned…”

“You got something to say, say it plainly, otherwise shut up about it.”

“Fine; you seem to care about her.”

“It’s my job to care about her.”

“It’s your job to protect her.”

Sandor finally turned on the man, glad to see he was at least slightly intimidated. He lifted his hands in supplication, “I wasn’t implying anything improper, Hound, just stating my observation,”

“That so? Then allow me to do the same,” leaning closer he spoke matter-of-factly, “You’re a nosy cunt with a big mouth. Just my observation.”

To Sandor’s disappointment the man only chuckled, “Fair enough.”

A moment later Sansa opened her door, “Clegane, can I speak to you a moment?”

He ignored Andre’s grin as he followed her into her bedchamber. She wasted not a moment before turning and addressing him, “If I ever need you to speak on my behalf, I will tell you.”

Sandor was taken aback. He could feel his scarred cheek burning with anger. _This is the thanks I get for sticking my neck out to save her from Joffrey?_

But he would not let her see how much her words bothered him, nor would he apologize, “Lord Lannister told you?”

“No, but it was not hard to guess.”

“Fine. Anything else?” he stared at her, unblinking.

“Yes,” she closed the gap between them and before he knew what was happening, she planted a chaste kiss on his cheek – the scarred one. He instinctively pulled back, but she was still uncomfortably close as she whispered, “Thank you.”

He nodded awkwardly, and as he left her chambers less than a minute after entering them, his cheek was burning again – this time for a very different reason.


	5. Wondering

**Tywin**

It was the third day of Sansa joining him in his solar, and Tywin was relieved to find the girl’s presence was not irksome as he had feared it might be. He expected a woman of her age to be a blabbering ninny, but she hardly made a peep. Even when they dined together, she did not attempt to make idle conversation about whatever it is young women cared about. If anything, she seemed more comfortable with the silence than Tywin was, which is why he nearly startled when she asked him a question during their evening meal that day.

“How did you flood the mines?”

“Excuse me?”

“The mines beneath Castamere, where Lord Reyne’s people took refuge after your skirmish.”

Tywin’s eyes glanced to the book sitting on the small table next to her chair. _A Modern History of House Lannister._

“Finished reading the History of the Houses of Westerlands already, my lady?”

She shook her head, “No, I decided it’s more worthwhile to learn about my captors than their ancestors.” Her answer was blunt but contained no evidence of resentment.

“You think of me as your captor?”

“Are our families presently at war, my lord?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And am I free to leave the capital?”

“No, my lady.”

She stared at him, lips a straight line.

He sighed, “Does the book not explain how I flooded the mines?”

“It says you blocked the entrance and diverted water in, but water from where? And how?”

Tywin took a bite of his veal and a sip of wine before answering, “There was a natural pool not far from the mines. We damned the stream that fed it and dug a trench to the entrance, which we had blocked with heavy stones.”

“How long did it take?”

“Not long, I put every available hand into the effort.”

“No, my lord, I meant how long for the mine to fill with water?”

He wondered why she asked these questions but was secretly pleased to retell this defining moment in his life, “Nearly three days. The mine was quite large.”

“Mmm,” she shook her head, looking contemplative, “It must have been terrifying.”

“I’m sure it was.”

She resumed her eating, seemingly done with their conversation, but Tywin was not, “I suppose you think I was unnecessarily cruel?”

“All cruelty is unnecessary, my lord, but if you mean to ask whether I found it _inappropriate_ – no, I think it was quite appropriate. The Reynes and Tarbecks defied your father for too long. They were given several opportunities to cease their treachery, if this book is an accurate account. A more merciful fate would surely have only encouraged additional rebellions against your family.”

Her words, not to mention her carefree delivery, shocked him. Finally he formed a response, “Then we are in agreement, my lady, with one exception: cruelty is quite often a necessity in life, though it gives me no joy to say so.”

She chewed her greens thoughtfully, “Perhaps then, my lord, it is the definition of _necessity_ on which we are divided.”

“Oh? I should think it had a rather an unambiguous meaning. I’m curious how you define a ‘necessity’, my lady.”

She took a sip of wine, “I define it quite strictly as anything required to survive, though I suppose there are gradations. Air, water, and food are indisputable, permanent necessities. On this I’m sure we agree. Then there are situational necessities – warm clothes and fire are necessary during northern winters, while shade is necessary during southern summers. Fighting, and even killing, can be a necessity, but only if your life is being directly threatened. But you did not ask me if killing the Reynes was necessary, my lord. You asked about the _method_ by which you killed them, which was not necessary, but was, as I’ve already agreed, appropriate.”

“Yet the method was _necessary_ to protect my family legacy then and going forward. And that is very much a necessity, don’t you agree?”

She shook her head, “I do not. You could have continued living by surrendering the rule of the Westerlands to Lord Reyne, or by killing him swiftly, mercifully.”

“Then you and I place a very different value on _family_ , my lady.”

“I do not believe so, my lord, but family is not needed to ensure one’s survival, hence it is not a necessity by my definition.”

“I must say, it is unusual for a woman to have such a rigid outlook on the world.”

“Do you ask many women about their outlook on the world, my lord?” her eyes were innocent while her words were accusatory.

He frowned and tossed his napkin on his plate, “No, and I don’t recall asking you.”

She simply shrugged, and her lack of perceived insult was maddening. He let enough time pass to avoid seeming too eager to continue their dialogue before speaking again, “Tell me, don’t you Starks have some saying about the importance of the _pack?_ ”

“Yes: the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

“Indeed, yet you don’t view family and legacy as necessities.”

“Do not mistake me, Lord Hand: family and legacy mean more to me than life itself, yet I’ve had both taken from me and I’m still here. Still breathing, eating, drinking… living.”

“Mmm… then what would you have done in my position, Lady Stark? What would you have done to the Reynes down in the mine, hmm?”

“I’d have sealed the entrance, as you did, then walked away.”

He startled at her casual admission, “You’d have left them to starve?”

“They’d have died of thirst before starving, once their provisions ran out. Imagine being in a dark mine. The first day, of course, they would have been confident you would accept their terms. The second day they’d think you were holding out as a negotiation tactic. The third day they’d start to have doubts. The fourth day they’d start to panic, probably argue; perhaps fight for whatever food and water they had left – though of course that would be difficult with their torches no doubt extinguished by then…”

“Day and night would blend together; they’d lose all sense of time. They’d have no idea whether they’d been trapped for a sennight or a fortnight. I’m sure at some point the men would take daggers to the women and children’s throats – the gift of mercy. I wonder then how long before they would do the same to themselves…” she popped a grape into her mouth, chewing it languidly, “But most importantly, you wouldn’t have had to flood your own gold mine.”

Tywin didn’t realize he was staring at her until she looked at him, effectively breaking his reverie.

He cleared his throat, “I admire your practicality, my lady.”

She popped another grape in her mouth, “As I admire your resourcefulness, my lord.”

\---------------------------------------------

The next day was uneventful as the girl read quietly in her chair while Tywin worked feverishly as he did every day. She was silent through lunch and afterwards, until a wiry man – one of Tywin’s many spies – entered and shared information that was disappointing but not surprising. Tywin had long suspected a certain grain distributor of manipulating prices by creating the appearance of a shortage of the commodity. He bought up most of the surrounding farmers’ harvests, but only sold about two-thirds of what he bought in any given month. The remainder he hid in silos that he alleged were empty, as well as secret underground silos that he kept hidden altogether.

The spy bowed his exit. Tywin summoned Ser Forley. The portly bald knight entered the solar several minutes later, “My lord?”

“Ser Forley, I’ll need you to lead a campaign to Felwood. It appears Lord Fell is price fixing on grains despite the King’s express orders that all grain supplies are to be sold without delay. Inspect his lands thoroughly and seize any grain you find there. Bring it to the capital’s granaries. You will undoubtedly need to bring several wagons. Bring fifty Lannister men with you for protection but let Fell’s men do all the labor – and make sure their Lord compensates them accordingly.”

As Forley bowed Tywin heard a snort coming from his otherwise silent companion. Forley looked at him quizzically and Tywin had to fight to retain his composure as he addressed the girl, “Is something amusing, Lady Sansa?”

“No, Lord Hand, my apologies for the unintentional interruption.”

Forley walked out, leaving the unlikely pair alone once more.

“Speak,” Tywin commanded.

“Pardon, my lord?”

“Don’t play dumb, Lady Sansa. What is on your mind?”

She sighed, “I’m sure you know what is best, Lord Hand.”

“Agreed. Now tell me how you’d deal with Lord Fell.”

She exhaled, “Well, it seems to me knowledge is most advantageous when your opponent does not know you possess it.”

She had piqued his curiosity, “Continue, my lady.”

“By showing up with a small army, Lord Fell will know that you know of his manipulations. It likely won’t stop him from doing them in the future, it will only encourage him to better cover his tracks.”

“So again I ask: what would you do?”

She walked over to his desk and took one of the two chairs opposite him, “Well, I have two ideas, one less wasteful, but with potential for a bit of backlash, even if just temporary. The other option is somewhat wasteful, but I believe it would be more effective – and permanent.”

“Let’s hear the less wasteful one first.”

“You send a notice to all grain distributors in the Crownlands informing them of a 10% tax increase on grain wholesales, going into effect a month from now. Lord Fell will rush to sell his supply, then in a month’s time you send notice that due to the number of petitions you’ve received you’ve decided to cancel the planned tax increase.”

It wasn’t the worst idea, but Tywin was far too busy to subject himself to a month of complaints from angry buyers and distributors, and it would hardly be a permanent solution.

“The second option?”

“You covertly burn the hidden silos – some of them, at least. Lord Fell will suspect you, of course, but won’t be certain… and will not be able to confront you without admitting to having the hidden silos and grain. He will simply have to absorb the loss and will reconsider ever keeping so much grain on hand in the future – not to mention it would be time-consuming and costly to rebuild the silos.”

Tywin arched an eyebrow, “You realize we are facing a food shortage, my lady?”

“I do. All the more reason to take decisive action against a man depriving the Kingdom of much needed supplies. Arresting Lord Fell would certainly be called for, but I assume that is not an option or you would have instructed Ser Forley to do so.”

“You are most astute, my lady. Indeed, Lord Fell is well-liked within the Stormlands. Given the tenuous relations between the Stormlands and the Crown, I prefer to avoid acting against their Lord, even within the confines of the law. Seizing his grain is one thing, seizing the man is quite another.”

“As I said, Lord Hand, I’m sure you know the best course of action,” she returned to her cushioned chair and the book that awaited her.

If he was being honest with himself, Tywin would have been ashamed that he hadn’t considered the same options she just presented. The girl had a keen mind, that much was clear. She was young and inexperienced, but he recognized a naturally gifted problem-solver when he saw one. He regretted that none of his own children or grandchildren inherited this trait – save perhaps his dwarf son Tyrion, who was an utter waste of intelligence.

What precisely motivated his next action he could not say, but Tywin had a sudden undeniable urge to explore the girl’s potential, “Lady Sansa, do you know how to balance ledgers?”

“I do, my lord, I helped my mother with this task at Winterfell.”

“Then perhaps you would like to take a break from your self-guided history lessons and assist me?”

She eyed him curiously before agreeing. She walked to his desk where he handed her a black bound ledger. The contents were innocuous enough – the account for the castle’s kitchens. He knew it would balance as he had skimmed it himself just the day before, but he was curious to watch her work. She returned to her chair and began dragging her index finger along the columns. He focused on his task but noticed when after several minutes she flipped back a few pages and began noting something on the piece of scrap parchment he had given her.

_Perhaps she doesn’t know her numbers so well after all. I know for a fact every copper is accounted for._

An hour later she brought the ledger back to him.

“Is everything in order, my lady?”

“The account balances, my lord, only… well, I’m surprised that you have a fixed contract with the poulter. In Winterfell the rates of poultry and other provisions fluctuate seasonally and based on supply and demand. It appears your payments to other suppliers do as well, but not to the poulter.”

Tywin grabbed the book from her and sure enough each month the amount paid to the poulter was the same – and an oddly round amount at that. Of the hundred plus transactions registered in the ledger each month, the girl noticed that one was exactly the same as the prior month.

It was a struggle not to let his chin drop, “I only asked you to balance the past two months – you reviewed over two hundred figures and noticed that two were identical?”

She nodded, “It is uncommon to see the same exact number appear twice, especially when it’s such a large number, so I looked at past months to see if it was a repeating pattern, and indeed it is. May I ask why you choose to have a fixed rate contract with the poulter?”

Tywin clenched his jaw, “We don’t.”

“Oh, I see.”

The girl was smart enough not to point out the obvious – that someone working in the kitchen was skimming off the account and doing a lazy job of covering his or her tracks. It shouldn’t be a surprise – for years there was no one keeping operations within the castle in check. Petyr Baelish was inept (or more likely corrupt) as the Maester of Coin. Truthfully, balancing ledgers was beneath the duties of a Hand, but Tywin had yet to fill all the positions with trustworthy and capable people. Draining the swamp was time-consuming and exhausting.

The girl was still standing in front of his desk, “Is there anything else you need help with, my lord?”

He handed her a stack of ledgers he had not yet checked, only briefly looking to make sure none contained sensitive information. He wasn’t certain, but he thought he saw the faintest trace of a smile on her lips as she returned to her chair.

\-------------------------------------------

The next morning the girl entered his solar and immediately looked to the small desk that was a new addition to the room. On it were several letters that needed to be responded to. Tywin had unsealed and briefly scanned each one – they were mostly requests for betrothals between heirs of various lesser houses. The girl, who wore a lovely pink dress that complimented her fair skin tone, stared at the desk in confusion.

Tywin did not take his eyes off his own work as he spoke to her, “It is a waste of my time to write correspondence of such an inconsequential nature. Please draft affirmative responses to all the betrothal requests. Consult me on the other matters before drafting the responses.”

After several seconds she turned to face him, “I don’t understand…”

“Surely, you’ve written a letter before, my lady?” he let her hear his annoyance, but she responded in kind.

“Why does it feel as if I’m being groomed for something? Whatever your decision is in regards my future I’m in no position to dispute, but can you at least extend me the courtesy of telling me?”

Her tone could not be tolerated. Tywin rose and approached the girl, who briefly shrunk under his gaze before refortifying her stance, defiantly.

“ _If and when_ a decision has been made as to your future, my lady, it will be _my_ prerogative to tell you or not. As for feeling you’re being groomed – don’t flatter yourself. I am currently doing the job of no less than four men. Delegating some minor tasks is only logical.”

He turned on his heel to return to his desk, thinking his word final, but the girl must have been feeling brash as she spoke to his back, “Do you think me a fool? Hiring qualified employees would be _logical,_ my lo—"

As quick as his namesake he spun and pounced on the girl, grasping her neck and pushing her backwards. He did not squeeze but nor did he loosen his grip once she was against the wall.

“Do not think that because I protect you from my grandson’s temper that you are entitled to a level of familiarity that gives you the right to speak to me as you just did. How I choose to conduct my duties is my decision and mine alone. Why would I waste good coin on _helpers_ when I can reap the benefits of slave labor? That’s what you are, isn’t it? You said so yourself: I’m your _captor_ … be thankful that this is the only way I put you to use.” He let his eyes drift down and linger on her chest. It sickened him to threaten her in that way, but the girl was becoming too bold; she needed to be reminded that as far as she was concerned Tywin Lannister was a God – the all-powerful entity holding her fate in his large hands. He could gift her to Roose Bolton who would soon be named Warden of the North – the man was known for being as cold and unforgiving as the Northern winters. Or to Joffrey as a secret wedding present to keep him from acting out his worst impulses on his soon-to-be Queen. He could marry her to his deformed son, the one who spent more time in brothels than Joffrey spent on the throne – though that wasn’t saying much.

Or he could keep her for himself, do exactly what the rumors said – take her as a mistress, let her ease his tension which grew daily…

He shook away the dark thoughts and looked to the girl’s eyes, expecting to see them filled with tears or fear – but he found neither. Her eyes were glass. They were empty – alarmingly so.

He released her neck and turned to gesture at the letters on her desk, “I thought you would find this a pleasant change of pace, but if you’d prefer to spend twelve hours each day reading history books…”

“I don’t, Lord Hand. Your consideration is most appreciated. I apologize for my earlier insolence,” she sat at her new desk and began writing, leaving Tywin to metaphorically scratch his head. Somehow this wraith of a girl had him thoroughly befuddled. Every time he thought he knew her mind he was proven wrong. She somehow made every victory feel like a failure.

It would be so much easier if she was the vapid child Cersei and Joffrey made her out to be, but the more time he spent with her, the more intelligent he found her to be. Conversely, every encounter with his daughter and grandson only demonstrated just how inept they were. He’d always thought Cersei to be the most intelligent of his children, only now he realized her cunning was only ever employed in acts of deceit or manipulation. She had no grasp of how to rule a kingdom – much less how to make a kingdom prosper. 

Yet as his respect for this Stark girl grew, so did his distress. In just over a sennight he’d found her to possess so many desirable qualities that made him question his decision to never remarry. Truthfully, he didn’t decide to never marry again, he just set unattainable standards for any prospective spouse. He would only marry a woman who possessed all of his late wife’s attributes and a number of others. The guilt he felt at the prospect of replacing Joanna with a lesser or even equal woman was unbearable. No, if Tywin Lannister ever remarried, it would be to a woman so indisputably perfect that no one would blame him for betraying the memory of his beloved Joanna – not even himself.

This hypothetical woman must be first and foremost beautiful, as Tywin Lannister was at his core a greedy man, and could admit as much. She must be highborn and impeccably bred. She must be intelligent, but not just in the feminine arts. She would be an equal to Tywin in many mental facets – logic, problem-solving, business, politics, and more.

Most importantly though, she must be kind and gracious while also possessing an ability to be ruthless when needed. Tywin was not a young man – any wife at this point would very likely outlive him. She must be able to rule his Kingdom until his heirs came of age. For a woman to rule, it was not enough to be loved, and not enough to be feared. A fearsome woman would always be resented. A lovable woman would always be exploited. But a woman who was loved on one hand and feared on the other had a good chance for a long reign.

As Tywin silently listed all these qualities, he found that the Stark girl possessed each and every one. There was only one glaring issue: if she didn’t despise him now, she very soon would…


	6. Troubling News

**Tywin**

The next fortnight saw the Great Lion’s admiration for the Stark girl continue to blossom, and he dared to believe the feeling was mutual. He gave her increasingly important responsibilities, and she rose to every challenge. When she occasionally needed his instruction, he found the time spent was a small price to pay for the many tasks she now handled satisfactorily on his behalf.

In fact, he rather enjoyed educating her, and explaining the rationale behind his decisions. Her agile mind quickly grasped every concept he presented. He thought back fondly to the many hours he spent teaching his son Jaime how to read. The maesters had given up on the boy ever learning his letters after he showed clear signs of a condition called dyslexia. By the Great Lion of Lannister refused to raise an ignorant child. They studied daily, and while Tywin’s attention was already spread quite thin, he found himself enjoying the time shared with his good-natured boy.

Despite being similarly enjoyable, teaching Sansa was markedly different. There was no frustration on either’s part, as she was a fast learner. It felt not so much like he was instructing her, but like he was _molding_ her. She was clay in his deft hands. He was sculpting a masterpiece – a woman who could rule a Kingdom, rule the entire realm, or at minimum raise future kings and queens that would be effective and revered.

His more personal feelings toward her were a source of confusion. At times his pride bordered on paternalistic. Other times he unconsciously conjured images of laying next to her in their marriage bed, discussing critical matters of the realm, asking her input on the decisions he’d make the next day while she lazily stroked his chest…

And then there were other times, when the girl stood close to point something out in a letter or ledger, when his thoughts were much less pure. When he caught a whiff of her hair, which smelled of either lavender or honeysuckle depending on which oil she had most recently used, or her skin, which smelled like sweet almond and sweat… at those times it was impossible to banish the images that came to mind… the image of her spread out on his large desk, his mouth lapping at her center as she begged – no, _commanded_ him not to stop. Not one to disappoint he would lick her furiously as she screamed out his name for the entire tower to hear…

“My lord?” Tywin snapped his eyes up to the girl, hoping she could not see the flush on his cheeks.

“What is it?” he asked, trying to sound impatient.

“I asked if there is anything else I can do to be of service.”

_Gods, if only you knew…_

“No, my lady. Thank you. You may return to your book now.”

\--------------------------------------------

The next morning Sansa entered Tywin’s solar wearing a gray and white dress.

_How fitting, she’s wearing her House colors on the day she will learn her House has been nearly eradicated._

Tywin pushed away the feeling of guilt over the pain today’s proceedings would cause the girl. He made a mental note to have a pair of maids assigned to spend the next few days and nights in the girl’s chambers; it would do no good to have the last Stark throw herself from her balcony in a fit of grief.

Tywin truly wished to spare her from learning the news in public, but it could not be avoided. In a few hours he would be summoned to court to hear a major announcement from the king, and per his own instructions, she would accompany him along with all four of her guards.

The girl looked almost disappointed when, upon entering, he told her he had no tasks for her that day, but she was happy enough to pick out a new book to read.

It was difficult to focus on his work and he was forced to take on only the least critical tasks as a result. He knew not why he cared so much for the girl’s feelings, only that each passing moment filled him with dread that this would be the thing that finally broke the girl he’d become strangely attached to.

He reminded himself that all he was guilty of was condoning the actions of two other Houses – actions which would end the current war with a minimum of bloodshed. The girl was not naïve – she knew her ‘captor’ was her family’s enemy. Yet somehow, in this room, they both seemed to forget that they were on opposite sides of a war. They assumed different roles – teacher and student, master and employee, protector and protected… and he was loath to give this up.

“My lord?”

“Hmm, yes?”

She seemed to consider her next words carefully, “Is something troubling you?”

Tywin was staring out the large window that overlooked the Godswood.

“No, my lady, just thinking.”

She nodded and returned to her book. Tywin thought about how her family – at least on the Stark side – kept the old Gods. _Perhaps I’ll tell Clegane to take the girl to the Godswood today after court._

A knock on the door broke his musings. Tywin’s steward entered and announced that the Hand’s presence was requested in the throne room.

As the girl walked by his side across the courtyard to the throne room – flanked by his six guards and her four – he could feel the tension radiating off of her.

_Does she know? Can she sense it?_

Tywin assured himself it was simply negative associations from her past and continued walking in silence. He bid Clegane to keep the girl toward the back of the room while he took his place by Joffrey’s side. Joffrey was in a particularly jovial mood, and knowing the reason made Tywin feel sick.

After the full crowd had assembled, Joffrey rose and addressed his subjects, “Lords and Ladies of the court – today is a day that will go down in history. The Crown received glad tidings this morning from its allies. I am pleased to tell you that the traitor Robb Stark has finally fallen!”

Joffrey allowed the crowd to cheer and praise him for over a minute before continuing, “Not only has the _young wolf_ perished, but also his bitch mother, who started this war by kidnapping my uncle Tyrion!”

The crowd cheered again, albeit with less vigor. Tywin tensed and searched for the girl but could only determine her location by spotting her tall guard.

“Where is Lady Sansa?!” Joffrey shouted. Tywin tried to catch the king’s attention, but the boy was in a frenzy. “Where is our dear Sansa? Where is the last wolf?” The crowd murmured and looked around.

“Here,” the girl stated, loud and clear, silencing the crowd that parted as she approached the stairs that led up to the throne, before curtsying for her king.

“Ahh, there you are Sansa, I’m so pleased you were present to hear the good news. What do you think of this turn of events?”

“I am pleased that all the traitors to the Crown have finally been extinguished.”

“Is that all?”

“I am grateful that the people of the realm can now enjoy the peace they so deserve.”

The girl showed no evidence of despair; she would give the king no satisfaction, Tywin realized.

“Do you not wish to know how your brother and mother died?”

“If it pleases your grace to share these details with the court.”

Joffrey’s lips curled into a cruel grin, “They were killed at a wedding, and due to your brother’s own stupidity. In breaking his vow to Lord Walder Frey, he sealed his own fate.”

“A just death for a traitor, your grace.”

“I hear your brother was stabbed by his own bannerman, Lord Bolton. Your mother had her throat slit so deeply her head was nearly severed from her body. What say you to that, Lady Sansa?”

“It sounds as if it was their deaths were swift – a testament to the mercy of both Lords Frey and Bolton.”

“Perhaps. Do you care to know what became of their bodies?”

“Your grace—” Tywin attempted to interrupt, but Joffrey raised a firm hand.

The girl answered solemnly, “I imagine they will be returned to the crypts of Winterfell as tradition would dictate, your grace.”

“A logical assumption, but a wrong one. Your brother’s head was removed from his body and replaced by that of his direwolf…”

“A poetic end, your grace.”

“As it was for your mother; her body was thrown into the river, to honor the tradition of her Tully house… that is, after several of Bolton’s men raped her corpse.”

The girl paled, and Tywin feared she would faint, but she remained completely passive.

“Tell me, Lady Sansa, how do you feel to be the last Stark? How does it feel to know your name dies with you?”

She remained silent.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t delay the complete eradication of your house. Perhaps I should take your head right here and now.”

She met his eyes with a challenge that only Joffrey and Tywin could see from their vantage point, “Perhaps you _should_ , your grace.”

Joffrey’s face reddened, “I shall think on it, my lady. I’d hate to make a rash decision.”

“Most wise, your grace.”

“In the meantime, you will join my family tonight as we celebrate our victory with a private supper.”

“A cause worth celebrating, indeed, your grace. It would be my honor.”

Joffrey studied the girl for seconds that bled into an eternity. In the entire exchange she had not once looked to Tywin.

“Until tonight, my lady,” he waved his hand, dismissing her.

She curtsied again, and strode confidently from the hall, her four guards falling in behind her.

**Sandor**

Too many emotions to count flowed through him, and Sandor knew how to process only one: rage. Walking back to the tower behind the girl he found himself picturing Joffrey’s head between his large hands – squeezing and squeezing until the bastard’s skull shattered and blood and brains vacated their vessel through his nose, eyes, and ears.

But intermingling with the rage were less familiar feelings, some he couldn’t even name. There was worry for the girl, who still shed not a tear. There was something he thought might be despair – or rather, _grief_ – but why should he grieve for a woman and boy he didn’t even know?

A small voice answered from within. _Because they’re part of **her**. You share her grief._

He shook away the unwelcome voice and focused on an easier subject: the old lion. What happened to Robb and Catelyn Stark stunk of the man. He was as clever as he was ruthless. And now the man had his paw on Sansa’s neck, free to do with the last Stark as he wished…

Sandor felt inexplicably nauseated as the realization dawned on him that within a year Sansa would have a cub in her belly. Whether by the old lion himself, his son the Imp, the Kingslayer, if he ever returned – or any number of the hundred or so Lannister relatives in Westerlands – the sire mattered not to Sandor, it only mattered that his little bird was about to find herself in a new cage.

They had reached her room and she entered without speaking. Sandor was reluctant to leave her alone until he noticed a pair of maids sitting on chairs in front of Sansa’s balcony, quietly knitting.

“Who are you?” Sansa asked.

“Sheila and Rosamund, my lady.”

“Why are you here?”

“We’re your new handmaids, my lady. The Lord Hand thought you’d gone too long without proper servants of your own.”

“Very well, but I don’t require your assistance at this moment, you are free to go. Come back before the evening meal to help me prepare.”

The women looked at each other, and the older one – Sheila – spoke, “My lady, we heard the horrible news about your family. We think best not leave you alone right now…”

“ _You_ think best, or the Lord Hand thinks best?”

“Does it matter, my lady?”

Sansa ignored the question, “Get out.”

“My lady…”

“It’s not a request, it’s a command, or have you been told that you serve me but do not answer to me?”

The women did not answer. Sansa turned on her heels and walked straight past Sandor who was still standing in the doorway, “Where are you going, my lady?”

She turned to look at the four men assigned to protect her, and her shoulders dropped as she walked back into the room where two strange women sat to watch over her in her time of despair. She sighed, “Nowhere, since there’s not a bloody place in this castle I can be alone anymore.” She slammed the door behind her, leaving a stunned Sandor on the other side.


	7. Winter Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the Tyrion/Tywin conversation pulls right from a GoT episode.

**Tyrion**

Entering his father’s solar had always filled Tywin’s youngest son with a sense of dread. His father would cut you down with words better than the average man could cut you down with a sword. But after hearing Joffrey's news today about the so-called Red Wedding, Tyrion had to have this conversation; he had to know, and had to make a plea…

Once in the solar Tyrion noticed a few things. First, and not surprisingly, was the absence of Sansa Stark, who had been his father’s shadow these past few weeks. Second was the lack of open books, ledgers, or parchments on his father’s desk – whatever the man had been doing before Tywin entered, he was not working. Third, and most surprising, was the look in his father’s eyes. To anyone who hadn’t lived thirty years with Tywin Lannister, the look wouldn’t have registered as anything but complete lack of regard. But Tyrion saw shades of emotion in his father that were invisible to anyone else, save perhaps his siblings. The man was _worried_ – and for the Hand of the King to be worried not an hour after learning the war they’d been engaged in for nearly two years had ended – well, it spoke volumes to Tyrion.

“Is aught amiss, father?”

Tywin narrowed his eyes, clearly bothered by how well his youngest son could read him, “ _Naught_ … What can I do for you, Tyrion?”

“I was merely coming to congratulate you, since I know I’m likely the only person who knows where credit is due.”

“And for what, exactly, are you congratulating me?”

“Oh, come now, Father, it’s just us. No little _wolf_ listening from the corner…”

Tywin leaned back in his chair. He might be the only man in Westeros who looked as imposing seated as he did while standing – which was saying much, as, at over six feet tall, his father cut a daunting figure when standing.

Tyrion could tell his father would not verbalize his involvement in the prior evening’s events – the affair that was already being referred to as the ‘Red Wedding’.

Tyrion laced his fingers and held them against his mouth, “Oh I know Walder Frey gets all the credit, or the blame, I suppose, depending on your allegiance…”

Tywin only stared at his son. Tyrion sighed, “Walder Frey is many things, but a brave man? No. He never would have risked such an action, unless he had certain _assurances_...”

Finally the old lion spoke, “Which he got from me. Do you disapprove?”

“Not at all – I’m all for cheating, this is war, after all… but at a _wedding?”_

“Explain to me why it is more noble to kill ten thousand men in battle than a dozen at dinner.”

Tyrion chuckled sardonically, “Oh I hear it was a _bit_ more than a dozen, but your point is taken… So that’s why you did it – to save lives?”

Tywin rose, “I did it to end a war; to protect my family. If you want to write a song for the dead Starks, go ahead!”

Tyrion shook his head, “The North will never forget.”

“Good. Let them remember what happens when they march on the South…”

“Ahh… now that’s worth writing a song about. Something like ‘The Rains of Castamere’… a song to instill fear in the hearts of anyone who even _thinks_ of defying the Great Lion… I mean, the _king._ Too bad the Northerners are made of a tougher mettle. If not for the Boltons’ and Freys’ comfort with betrayal, would we have won this war?”

“They ‘betrayed’ the young wolf in retaliation for his _own_ betrayal. Robb Stark broke his vow to Walder Frey, which earned him Frey’s vengeance. Roose Bolton was smart enough to recognize the blunder for what it was and chose to join the winning side.”

“Ahh, I see; you’re right, father... Only I’d feel better about our Northern enemies if it wasn’t but a single _mistake_ that was their undoing. Have you forgotten that Robb Stark won every battle?”

“Robb Stark is dead! All the Stark men are dead. Winterfell is a ruin. Roose Bolton will be named Warden of the North, and there are few Northerners who will pit themselves against the family known for flaying their enemies alive.”

Tyrion nodded, “Well played father, promising Bolton the wardenship, a good way to guarantee a victory.”

“ _I did no. such. thing._ Let me be clear: the Freys and Boltons devised this plan without my involvement. I merely gave it my blessing.”

Tyrion laughed, “Father, I don’t recall you ever being so concerned with keeping your hands clean. I wonder, whose judgment are you so afraid of?”

For the first time in his life, Tyrion saw his father’s cheeks redden - and not with anger.

Tyrion stood and strolled around the solar, knowing the casual movement would drive his father mad, “Your own judgment? … No, you could never find fault in yourself…”

“The people’s judgment? No, you never concern yourself with the ‘opinions of the sheep’ – if anything, you’d want to give them more reason to fear you…”

“The North’s judgment? That’s a possibility – let them direct all their hate at the Boltons and Freys, it should guarantee they’ll leave us alone for a while, though something tells me it’s not that either...”

Tyrion ran his finger along the small desk in the corner where Sansa had been stationed the past fortnight. He would not make this easy on his father…

“Not to change the subject, but Sansa Stark is quite a lovely young lady, wouldn’t you agree? Such a shame that Joffrey couldn’t appreciate the winter rose. Summer roses are beautiful, too, of course… but the slightest chill in the air and they wither and die – delicate things meant for short-term enjoyment. But the blue winter rose… did you know a rose bush can go dormant for _years_? Not all will come back, but those that do are that much stronger -- nearly indestructible as a matter of fact. You can cut it down to the ground but eventually it will rise up again. Perhaps a man like you, so tall and strong and fierce, is not impressed by such abilities. But I am but a little man, and I find resiliency to be a most _appealing_ quality – in both flowers and people…”

“…But I digress, I believe we were talking about your plans for the North.”

Tywin’s jaw was clenched, “I was doing no such thing, other than to inform you that Roose Bolton will be named Warden of the North.”

“So then you have no plans for the last Stark? I find that hard to believe…”

“I don’t care whether you believe it, and furthermore, I needn’t inform you of every plan I make. I will not deny the Stark girl is a valuable asset; rushing into a decision in regards her fate would be unwise; trusting her with the wrong man would be extremely unwise.”

“But certainly you’ll not return her North – you’d not give the Northerners a Stark to rally around…”

“Do you take me for a fool?”

“Far from it.”

“Good. Then may I ask why you are so concerned with the girl’s fate? Do I detect a sense of hope that you might be awarded the _prized winter rose_?”

Tyrion chuckled, “Oh father, do you take _me_ for a fool? Please, before you answer, do look past my short stature for once…”

“Then why the concern over the daughter and sister of our dead enemies?”

Tyrion took a deep breath, finally preparing to disclose the true reason for his visit, but worried that his words would fall on deaf ears. His father may feel some lust toward the girl, and perhaps even some respect, but he would let neither impact his decision – whatever he did with Sansa Stark would be done to advance the power of the Crown and House Lannister. Tyrion wondered about the man his father might trade Sansa Stark to, knowing all too well that too many lords would treat her as nothing more than a broodmare – or worse.

Tyrion exhaled, “I have never asked anything of you, father, nor have I ever expected anything from you. I know how you feel about me and I don’t fool myself into believing there is some shred of love or affection in your heart for me. But if there is at least a morsel of respect for me – for my brain, for the fact that your blood runs through my veins, for any reason at all…”

Tywin looked at his son with exasperation, “If there is a request, state it.”

Tyrion nodded, already feeling defeated, but unwilling to give up, “The girl has suffered much. If it is possible for there to be some small amount of peace or happiness in her future, she deserves it.”

Afraid to meet his father’s eyes, Tyrion bowed and left without looking back.

**Tywin**

If the display in the throne room today was cruel, Joffrey’s behavior at dinner was downright sinister.

Tywin had escorted Sansa to the King’s private dining room to find Joffrey, Cersei, and Tyrion already present. Clegane looked murderous when Joffrey insisted all the guards wait outside rather than standing sentry inside the room, _“It’s only family, no need for guards!”_

Joffrey explained the absence of his betrothed, stating that Margaery had a headache, and sent her apologies to the family.

_Coward._

Though Tywin could hardly blame the girl. He could think of at least a hundred places he’d rather be, including the frozen Wall, a torture chamber in the Dreadfort, the Sky Cells of the Eyrie, and the Red Keep’s own Black Cells.

Disturbingly, the girl still had not shed a tear that Tywin could detect. She was a lifelike puppet, with some invisible force pulling the strings and speaking as her mouthpiece.

She executed an impeccable curtsy for both the King and the Queen Regent. To the latter’s credit, she looked almost sympathetic toward the girl, having lost her own mother at a young age.

Joffrey beckoned Sansa to sit beside him at the intimate gathering, “In place of my dear betrothed.”

Raising a garish goblet, Joffrey then called a toast, “To victory over all those who defy us. Long may the Baratheons reign.”

It took only a few minutes before the thinly veiled attacks began, “So, my dear Sansa, now that you’ve had time to process the news, how do you feel?”

“I thank the Gods that they have delivered peace to the realm, and justice to our enemies.”

“You mean to your family?”

“Yes, your grace, my traitorous family.”

“Indeed…” Joffrey chewed his mutton with all the grace of a dairy cow.

“Enough talk of traitors and death,” Tyrion interjected, “how go the wedding preparations, sister?”

Cersei readily welcomed the new topic, “Quite well, it will be a wedding talked about for centuries! We will have—”

Joffrey interrupted his mother, “Lady Sansa, I can’t help but worry about how you must feel, being the last of your _pack_. What is that saying you have – ‘the lone wolf dies’…?”

Tywin tried to divert the conversation again, “Your grace, I believe your mother was tell—"

Sansa spoke over him, “My family was dead to me as soon as they turned against the Crown, your grace. I only pray that you will find me a Lord husband with whom I can make a new _pack_ – one that will be ever loyal to the one true king.”

The uncomfortable conversation continued in this pattern – Joffrey speaking only to Sansa, with Tyrion, Tywin, and Cersei making unsuccessful attempts to change the subject every time there was a second’s gap in the king’s words.

_“There will be over a hundred white doves…”_

“I hear that Roose Bolton is seeking a bride for his heir, Ramsay – the boy is a bastard, but I suppose that’s appropriate given you’re the daughter of a traitor…”

_“Margaery’s dress is so lovely; you will gasp when you see it.”_

“Or perhaps Euron Greyjoy, I’d love to get his fleet and his fierce soldiers committed to the Crown. I’ve heard the man’s thirst for bloodshed is second only to his appetite for pretty young cunt.”

_“And what dessert has the lovely couple chosen?”_

“Walder Frey would undoubtedly appreciate being gifted the Northern princess, perhaps he will let his twenty sons share you…”

_“Where will our ‘friends’ from Dorne be seated?”_

“Of course, it might be wise to keep you for myself, as an insurance policy in case Margaery cannot give me sons. Your own mother birthed three healthy boys, did she not? It’s a shame the Freys didn’t take her as a hostage instead of slitting her throat; I’ve always wondered what it would be like to take a mother and daughter into my bed.”

“ENOUGH!” Tywin slammed both fists on the table, rattling plates and silverware and nearly toppling wine goblets.

Joffrey looked momentarily stunned, then terrified, then incensed, “How dare you?!”

“I will not sit here and let you torment a guest of this house! This _girl_ ,” he pointed at Sansa, “you enjoy mocking so much, has more strength, grace, and intellect in her pinky finger than you have in your entire wretched body! Yet you insist on speaking to her as if she is the lowest whore in all the realm. It ends _NOW_. I warned you once that it is time to _earn_ that Crown upon your head, or risk losing it. Consider this a second warning -- and know that there will not be a third!”

Tywin stepped to Sansa’s side and offered his hand, “My lady,” he spoke without looking at her, continuing to pin the wilting king with a glare that had surely caused at least one man to piss himself over the years.

She accepted his hand but dropped it the moment they stepped into the hall and continued to ignore him all the way to the Tower of the Hand, and right up to her door. She tried to enter but he stilled her, turning her to face him. There was nothing but ice in her gaze.

“My lady, I must apologize on be—”

“Does it give you pleasure, my lord?” she asked icily.

“Does what give me pleasure?”

“Getting to play the part of the _honorable_ _hero_ for a change?”

His nostrils flared, and he noticed nine sets of eyes in nine guards simultaneously drop to the ground as if their feet were suddenly fascinating. Only the Hound was brave enough to watch the scene unfolding.

“In light of the day you’ve had, I will forgive your—”

“It must be nice, being in the same room as your grandson. Next to him, one could almost mistake you for a human being.”

“Lady Stark – mind your tongue or else—”

“Or else _what?_ Tell me, what punishment the _Great_ _Lion_ of Casterly Rock is dreaming up in that cunning mind of yours? I fear your grandson has set the bar rather high for you – I’ve been publicly stripped and beaten, made to beg for my life with a crossbow aimed at my heart, I’ve been whipped, cut, strangled, bitten, raped…”

He winced at her words, and the guards shuffled uneasily on their feet, “I’m sorry, does it pain you to hear these words? I haven’t even gotten to the worst parts yet… I watched my beloved father lose his head for the ‘crime’ of speaking the truth. I learned of my baby brothers being burnt alive by the man I grew up caring for like a brother. And now I hear that my mother and brother were killed in an act of cowardice and betrayal, after being extended guest rights at a wedding. And as icing on the cake, that their corpses were defiled then tossed away as trash.”

“So please, Lord Hand, don’t expect my gratitude after you _rescue_ me from harsh words. And don’t embarrass yourself for apologizing for your grandson’s words, when we both know you’d never apologize for his actions.”

Tywin worked his jaw back and forth, taking the tongue lashing, though he knew not why he stood for it.

“And most importantly, Lord Hand, don’t pity me. I’m going to enjoy watching your _family_ destroy your _legacy._ If anyone deserves pity, it’s you – for having to choose between the two things most important to you,” at these last words her mask shattered and behind it she wore a devious grin that was eerily similar to a wolf’s snarl…

…

After her door shut in his face, Tywin had mustered whatever dignity he could and proceeded to his own bedchamber. But sleep didn’t come easily night. He paced the floor like a caged lion, then tossed and turned in his large bed, then paced some more, then stood on his balcony before returning to bed. He was haunted by her words – not the description of the horrors she had endured, but how accurately she described the torment he was facing internally…

_I’m going to enjoy watching your **family** destroy your **legacy**._

It was the precise conflict that was eating him from the inside out, and the only person who knew it was the northern girl. She clawed open his belly, found his weakness, and pulled it out to taunt him with.

_This is the legacy of Tywin Lannister: a son who’s openly mocked as a Kingslayer, a daughter who is squandering her Queenship by fucking every man with a working cock and going out of her way to be completely unlikeable, and a deformed dwarf who spends his days drinking and whoring._

At least if his grandchildren had promise Tywin could be at peace, but that situation was even worse.

_An eldest grandson who is as cruel and vile as the Mad Targaryen King, a second grandson who is good-natured but too soft to be a great King, and a granddaughter who’s already been promised to the Martells – a family that holds quite the grudge against the Lannister and Baratheon names…_

When sleep finally claimed him, Tywin still would not find peace. He had the familiar nightmare that had haunted his slumber for three decades…

> _“I’m sorry, my lord,” the frightened maester addressed a young Tywin Lannister just outside his wife’s bedchamber, “we could save the child, but not the mother.”_
> 
> _Tywin nodded numbly, not processing that the love of his life was dead on the other side of the door. The maester was trying to tell him something, but he pushed open the door while ignoring the man._
> 
> _He momentarily disregarded the bundle that a wet nurse held, instead walking slowly to the bed where his wife lay dead. From this angle he could only see pale legs splayed out, covered in blood, with more blood staining the sheets all around those legs – a deep shade of red… Lannister red._
> 
> _He reached out a hand and touched her still warm ankle._
> 
> This is not Joanna’s foot, there must be some mistake! This isn’t my wife – that means my wife is not dead!
> 
> _When he looked up the bed to confirm his suspicion, he saw a familiar yet foreign face – a face his conscious mind recognized while his subconscious did not. Fair skin, red hair._
> 
> _He dropped to his knees, not knowing why the death of this woman was causing him just as much pain as the death of his beloved wife would have._
> 
> _Just then his adult sons came rushing in. Upon seeing the woman Jaime, too, fell to his knees, while Tyrion climbed onto the bed, uncaring that he was kneeling on blood-soaked sheets. He grasped the woman’s limp shoulders and shook her, “Mother, mother… wake up, please… mother!”_
> 
> _Tywin was wrought with despair but equally confused, “Boys, that is not your mother. Your mother was Joanna.”_
> 
> _His sons ignored him, both wracked with their own grief._
> 
> _Finally the persistent maester captured Tywin’s attention, “My lord, about the child…”_
> 
> _“What about it?”_
> 
> _“I’m afraid it’s deformed, my lord.”_
> 
> _Tywin looked to Tyrion, who was now holding the woman’s shoulders in his stubby arms, rocking her lifeless body back and forth while sobbing._
> 
> _“It’s a dwarf,” Tywin stated with both certainty and defeat._
> 
> _“No, my lord, it’s… well… I think you should see for yourself…”_
> 
> _Tywin cautiously reached up and pulled at the red blanket swaddling the babe in the nurse’s arms. He blinked several times before his eyes registered the creature looking back at him. It was not a child at all, but a wolf pup. A wolf with pale golden fur._
> 
> _Tywin lifted the tiny ball of fur and held it out before him, convinced this was an elaborate jape orchestrated by one or both of his sons and this mystery woman playing dead._
> 
> _Just then his sons noticed their new ‘brother’ and gasped, but in astonishment rather than horror. “Brother!” Jaime exclaimed, running to his father’s side to pet the wolf pup. Tyrion joined him. They cooed over the wolf, showing signs of neither surprise nor jest._
> 
> _Grief and confusion were replaced by anger within Tywin, “What in the Seven Hells is going on? Where is Joanna? Where is our babe? Who is this woman?”_

Tywin was yanked from the strange nightmare by pounding on his door; he opened it to find Ser Addam, breathing heavily. Breaching protocol, the knight didn’t wait for his lord to address him, “It’s Lady Stark, my lord, you must come at once.”


	8. War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I generally don't post cautions for each chapter - the tags and rating speak for themselves. However I will break my own rule and warn readers for description of male-on-female violence in this chapter.

**Tywin**

The Hound was raging in the hallway, pulling his hair out by the look of it. In front of the girl’s door were two dead Lannister guards – Lady Sansa’s guards. Tywin stepped through her doorway. From his vantage point he could make out a pair of thin, pale legs in her bed; her upper body was obstructed by the form of Maester Lantell bent over her. Tywin stopped in his tracks; mouth gone dry. He managed to croak out a single word, “Dead?”

The maester startled and turned, “No, my lord, but brutally beaten.” With his body now at an angle Tywin could see more of the girl – including faint streaks of blood on her inner thighs.

Tywin nodded mechanically, noticing the maester pull a sheet over the girl’s body to protect her dignity.

“Will she live?”

“None of her injuries is life threatening, my lord. She was unconscious when I arrived, but I put a drop of sweetsleep under her tongue to ensure she rests as long as possible. I fear she will be in much physical and emotional pain once she awakens.”

The ten steps it took to approach the girl’s bed were agony – an agony that reminded him of walking to his wife’s bed after she bled out bringing Tyrion into the world. Remnants of the dream he’d had just a few minutes ago echoed deafeningly in his mind.

The maester stepped aside respectfully, and Tywin could now see the girl’s face had been struck. One eye was bruised and swollen, her lower lip was cut, and there was a deep gash that extended from the left side of her chin to just below her cheekbone. Her neck was bruised on both sides with handprints that were mirror images of each other, with thumbprints crossing over at her throat. Her upper arms and wrists were bruised.

Tywin looked down to her delicate hands and noticed several broken and bloody fingernails, and cuts on her knuckles. _Girl put up a fight._

The slight feeling of pride did little to soothe the rage that was building inside him like a thundercloud. He lifted the sheet, not caring what the maester thought about it. Her belly was bruised from what Tywin assumed were punches and kicks.

The maester continued, “No broken bones, not even cracked ribs. It would appear they wanted to inflict pain without leaving lasting damage… except of course this,” the maester trailed his finger down her face parallel to the gash, “given it’s the only deep cut, I suspect it was unintentional, perhaps from a ring.”

At those words Tywin’s blood went cold. He pictured the solid gold ring he had gifted Joffrey when he came of age, the one the boy wore on his right ring finger at all times. It was a roaring lion’s head, fangs and all.

Tywin nodded mechanically, “See to it her suffering is at a minimum.”

As he turned to leave, he was startled to see the brooding figure of Sandor Clegane standing between him and the doorway, “She fucking told you this would happen.”

Tywin’s stomach clenched – the Hound having vocalized the very words that were bouncing around inside his skull. As was his way, he deflected the man’s anger back at him, “And where were you, hmm? You’re the one tasked with protecting her at any cost—”

Ser Andre stepped between the two tall men, putting a hand to the Hound’s chest, “Lord Lannister, our shift had just ended, we went to the kitchens to eat as we do every morning at 3 o’clock. We were gone little more than an hour and when we came back, we found your men, slayed, at the entrance and at each floor. We ran to Lady Sansa’s room but seeing her attackers were already gone Clegane went to her while I ran to get the maester and then to tell Ser Addam to summon you.”

Tywin looked to Addam, his most loyal servant, whose somber nod confirmed that at least twelve good men had been killed just so that his evil grandson could unleash his fury on a young woman whose only crime was being born a Stark.

 _But his fury wasn’t for her, it was for me._ The frightening realization hit Tywin like a punch to the gut. Sansa had done nothing to anger the king that day. She had said all the right things, responded perfectly, even when Joffrey taunted her incessantly. No, this depraved act wasn’t done to hurt her – it was meant to be a threat to Tywin himself – an answer to his own threats toward the king. Joffrey’s Kingsguard could have just as easily ascended two more flights of stairs and killed Tywin himself. _That_ is what this was about.

Joffrey was waging war against his own family – the grandfather who had fought for the very throne he now sat in, the grandfather who had come to his rescue when Stannis Baratheon’s armies were about to destroy the capital.

If the boy wanted to fight a man’s war, Tywin would answer. It would not be a war of swords or soldiers, but of cunning, strategy, and deception – three domains in which Tywin Lannister had never been bested.

A comforting certainty enveloped Tywin like a warm blanket. Without another word he walked back to the girl’s bedside, a rare smile forming on his lips. He bent low, lips almost touching the ear of the battered beauty as he whispered a promise that was as much to himself as it was to her, “I choose _legacy_ , my lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps Joffrey in my fic is too extreme, however it will take a lot to make Tywin go against his own blood. So hopefully it doesn't feel unncecessary. 
> 
> Then again, Joffrey tortures cats and whores and kills people for small offenses in ASOIAF/GOT so maybe my characterization of him isn't that extreme after all.


	9. Schemes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin plays Joffrey like a fiddle.

**Sansa**

_From the stone bridge she looked out over the blue-green waves crashing against the rocks. She was in complete awe of the majesty of this place. This place she’d never seen but that felt like home – not a home she was born to, but a home that had been built for her… a home that had been waiting for her. Up here she was actually looking down on the gulls. The winds were so strong that when she spread her arms out it actually pushed her back, and she giggled._

_A gravelly voice chuckled behind her, “Careful, you’re not_ really _a little bird, don’t want you getting blown away…”_

_She turned around to smile at Sandor, and he smiled back. He looked so handsome when he smiled, and she realized she’d never seen it before, but now she knew she wanted to see it every day. “My hound, always looking out for me,” she teased lovingly._

_She turned back to the ocean, content to stare at the waves crashing relentlessly against the rocks – the unstoppable force meeting the immovable object. She sighed wistfully, “So beautiful, yet so deadly,” she muttered to no one in particular._

_A man snorted to her right, and she turned to see Tywin was staring at her in open admiration, “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing.”_

_She swatted him playfully, noticing how much younger he looked when smiling. “I see my lion is in a rare mood today,” she mused._

_“How could I not be happy to look upon my lioness,” he stroked a knuckle gently against her belly, “and my legacy.”_

**Tywin**

Tywin sat at the girl’s bedside the next day just after noon; the maester hadn’t given her any more sweetsleep after the initial dose very early that morning, so he expected she would awaken soon.

She was stirring and mumbling in her sleep, eyes moving behind closed lids. After several minutes of this she stilled, and several more minutes after that her eyes opened slowly, immediately squinting at the afternoon light coming through the windows.

Her eyes found Tywin and she flinched, then winced at the pain that even that small movement had clearly brought her.

Tywin leaned forward, speaking in a soothing voice that sounded foreign to his own ears, “It’s alright my lady, you’re safe…” He reached for her hand, but she pulled back as if his touch was acid. “Alright… it’s alright. Do you remember what happened?”

She nodded, and for the first time he saw tears fall down the girl’s cheeks. He soon realized the tears were not for herself as her eyes widened, “Sandor – where’s Sandor?!”

“Shh, he’s outside. He wasn’t here when it happened…”

“Ser Andre? Damon? Eryk?”

“Ser Andre is safe as well; unfortunately Damon and Eryk were killed,” he knew the words would hurt, but he didn’t want to lie to her; mutual trust would be critical going forward.

She covered her mouth with a hand, “No! No, this is all my fault!”

Tywin sat on her bed, propriety be damned. He took her other hand, giving her no opportunity to resist, though this time she seemed to welcome the contact. As sternly as he gave commands to his men, he responded, “It is NOT your fault. This is Joffrey’s fault, and his blasted Kingsguard. I know you have a tender heart, Lady Sansa, but the time to mourn is _not_ now. You must rest now…”

“The maester will be along shortly with a sedative, but I need to ask a question first. But before I do, I need to know that you trust me to fix this. I have a plan, it must be executed slowly and carefully, but I will fix this. Do you trust me, my lady?”

His tone bordered on pleading, something he’d never done in his life and never expected to do, but felt it was called for now.

She studied his eyes intently, and he let her. He silently challenged her to find deception in his eyes, but she seemed to have a different idea, “Tell me, Lord Hand: did you orchestrate the murders of my mother and brother?”

“No, I did not.”

“Did you know it was going to happen?”

He sighed, “Yes, I did.”

“Could you have prevented it from happening?”

He would give her the truth, but he could not look in her eyes as he did so. He bowed his head, and whether she interpreted the gesture as shame, submission, or supplication, he did not care, “Most likely, my lady, though Roose Bolton and Walder Frey aren’t exactly _predictable_ men.”

She swallowed, and he thought for a moment she was fighting back tears, until she looked back up at him with pure determination in her eyes, “Did you do it to end the war, or because my brother damaged your ego by besting your men in battle?”

Tywin was taken aback by her question. In honesty he could admit to being surprised that, in fact, his ego had _not_ been damaged. A twenty-year-old boy took on the Great Lion and won – won battles, but not the war, of course…

“I did it to end the war, my lady. In fact, I had rather respected your brother; I thought he would make a good Warden of the North. I had hoped for his surrender, but when the Freys and Boltons presented the opportunity, I had to put my duty to my kingdom and my men first.”

She nodded and he allowed her some time to process his many confessions.

“My answer is yes, Lord Tywin.”

He looked at her, puzzled, “Answer to what?”

She looked up at him, “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

He couldn’t stop his mouth from dropping open.

“Is this the first time the Great Lion of Lannister has been speechless? Perhaps he is a mere mortal, after all,” her tone indicated amusement, but it was not reflected in her expression.

“You would marry me, Lady Sansa?”

“With some conditions, yes.”

“And what might those be?”

“That you would protect your second family with all the fierceness that you’ve protected your first family.”

Her words sent an inexplicable jolt of excitement from his heart to his groin. He cleared his throat, “And the other conditions?”

“I suppose it’s actually just the one, though acknowledging that your first family might force you to choose – and I will demand you choose _us.”_

The gravity of her request was not lost on him… if only she’d known he already made the choice, “Your conditions are reasonable, though I must tell you that was _not_ what I was going to ask you, my lady.”

She looked confused, and if Tywin read her accurately, a bit insulted. He soothed her ego, “Even I have more courtesy than to propose to a woman the day after she’s been brutalized.”

“Then what was your question, my lord?”

He hesitated, knowing that speaking of this would be painful for her, “I need to know which of the Kingsguard were involved in the attack.”

She looked down at her hand, the one he was still holding. She pulled it away and wrapped it around herself in an innate self-preservation mechanism.

“All but Ser Loras Tyrell were present, my lord. Joffrey, Ser Meryn, and Ser Blount _participated_ – the rest only watched.”

Tywin froze. He had wanted to know which men attacked his guards, it never occurred to him that anyone other than Joffrey committed the specific _deed_ she was referring to.

The girl’s head hung low. She looked defeated, pitiable. With a gentle touch he lifted her chin, “My lady, I failed you once. You were right about Joffrey, and I could not see it. I will not fail you again, because I will not be fooled again…”

She nodded but looked unconvinced. Her lack of faith in him was painful, but deeply motivating.

“Earlier, I asked for your trust – do I have it?”

She sighed, “I don’t know why, my lord – perhaps a lack of other options – but yes, you do.”

He lowered himself to once again sit on the edge of her bed, “Good. Because the question you thought I would ask I _am_ planning to ask you, just not now… Not until I’ve earned you, my lady. Not until I’ve proven that I can protect you from any and all threats. You will know when that day comes, and when it does, I hope your answer will remain the same.”

With a kiss to her scabbed knuckles, the Great Lion rose and strode from her room, ready to put his plan into action.

\----------------------------------------

After speaking with Sansa, Tywin went directly to his solar, finding Lady Olenna Tyrell waiting for him.

“Thank you for coming, my lady. I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

“Not at all Tywin, and please drop the formalities, we’ve known each other too long.”

“As you wish, Olenna.”

“How is the girl?”

Tywin was shocked speechless for the second time today.

Olenna scoffed, “Oh you know how quickly word travels, Tywin, especially when certain men in certain white cloaks think they are untouchable.”

“The girl is as good as can be expected, under the circumstances.”

“Good, I’m glad of it, truly. She’s a sweet young thing. Too innocent and mild-tempered to get caught up in all these games and wars.”

_If only you knew…_

“Tell me, Olenna. What have you heard about what transpired early this morning?”

“What I’ve heard, or what I’ve deduced?”

“Both.”

Olenna Tyrell was as blunt as ever in her response, “I heard that certain white cloaks were bragging about getting to tame the wild wolf, going into rather vivid detail about how tight a certain young cunt is…” she ignored Tywin’s grimace, seemingly relishing in his discomfort, “what I’ve _deduced_ is that, with the King’s blessing, and likely his involvement, the entire Kingsguard stormed this very tower to attack the girl in her slumber… Now, you tell me how close I am to the truth.”

“Uncannily,” Tywin responded.

“And the fact that you summoned me here the very next day, tells me one of two things… either this is your attempt at damage control and you’re about to try to convince me that this was an isolated event, and my granddaughter Margaery is in no way at risk of suffering a similar fate…”

“Or…?” Tywin raised his brows, a subtle challenge.

Olenna smiled, “Or, this is both a warning and an appeal.”

“And what would you say to the latter, Olenna?”

“That Tommen seems to be a very sweet boy…”

\----------------------------------------

“Father, don’t you think you’re overreacting?” Cersei pleaded.

Tyrion scrunched his brow, “I’m curious sister, is there such a thing as _overreacting_ to gang rape?”

“Do not use that vile term, and I did not ask you, I asked Father! Now please, tell us _exactly_ what Sansa said, Father.”

Tywin rubbed his eyes, “ _Again_ , daughter, she said the members of the Kingsguard – all but Loras Tyrell – attacked her. Trant and Blount intimately assaulted her, while the other four watched. The maester has verified her allegations, plus her statement is corroborated by numerous witnesses who saw the six men enter and leave the tower early this morning.”

“And how is that _not_ gang rape, sister?” Tyrion asked acidicly.

“Shut up you little—"

“ _Enough_ , both of you…”

Joffrey watched the discourse closely, seemingly glad that his name was not mentioned by Sansa or the “witnesses” – no doubt assuming that few people would be willing to speak out publicly and incriminatingly against the king himself. It was a bit of a gamble for Tywin not to divulge his knowledge of Joffrey’s involvement in the attack – but his bet seemed to be paying off as Joffrey eagerly went along with the altered version of events. Tywin wasn’t ready to deal with Joffrey – not yet.

Tywin continued in an authoritative tone, “What kind of message does it send to the realm if highborn young ladies are not safe even in the Red Keep? When word of this incident gets to the North, we’ll be lucky if Roose Bolton can maintain control over the northern armies – Hells, he may decide to join them in defending the honor of the _last Stark_ , who was an innocent in the recent war.”

Joffrey finally spoke up, “Grandfather, you can’t execute _every_ member of my Kingsguard! If you want to send a message, fine… you can have Ser Balon, make an example out of him.”

“You think this is about making an _example_?” Tywin snorted incredulously, “This is about delivering _justice_. Six of your men, without your knowledge or permission, killed twelve Lannister guards then attacked and raped a guest of the Crown. They disobeyed you, shamed your name, and now are flaunting it for the whole Kingdom to hear. I shouldn’t have to tell you to take their heads, you should have done it already, knowing how this makes you look!”

Joffrey looked up at him, perplexed.

_Finally something he cares about – his image._

“How does it make me look, grandfather?” he asked, almost innocently.

“ _Weak_ ,” Tywin spit, letting the word hang in the air in before proceeding, “They’re laughing at you, saying your lady mother has bigger balls than you do. They’re calling you the _stag without antlers_ … the _lion without claws._ Some are even saying you knew the attack was going to happen and did nothing because you’re afraid of your own Kingsguard.”

“That is a lie!”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s a lie; it only matters that people believe it and it’s weakening your authority.”

“Round up whoever is spreading these vile rumors and throw them in the Black Cells!”

“I told you – it is your own Kingsguard who are starting the rumors. They are bragging about their _conquest_ – confident their king will do nothing to defend the honor of his former betrothed; you’ve given them too long a leash.”

“Father, perhaps a less _permanent_ punishment is in order. A public lashing, or a month in the Black Cells…” Cersei offered weakly.

“Ahh yes, what a way to invoke fear,” Tywin sat down heavily, shaking his head in exaggerated exasperation, “I don’t know why I bother. Everything I do for this family, and yet you continue to question my judgment. I worked tirelessly to secure the alliance with the Tyrells to save our family and now even _that_ is in danger thanks to your _cowardice_ …”

Joffrey stood, “What? What are you saying, grandfather?”

Tywin pinched the bridge of his nose for effect, “I spent the past hour talking Lady Olenna Tyrell down from the ledge. She is mortified that she is soon to see her beloved granddaughter wed to a man who commands so little respect. She said, and I quote, ‘I’d rather see Margaery wed a brave lord than a craven king’.”

“How dare that old bat call _me_ a craven! I’ll have her arrested for treason and marry her granddaughter whether she likes it or not.”

Tyrion chuckled, “Great idea, arrest an eighty-year-old woman… Oh the songs they’ll write of your valor!”

Cersei again tried to introduce calmness into the discussion, “Father, Olenna Tyrell is a spiteful old woman who meddles in our affairs to keep herself relevant. I hardly think we should let her opinions influence our actions.”

“I’ll remember you said that, daughter, when the Tyrells leave, along with their armies, food, and gold. The woman is already scheming ways to unite five of the seven kingdoms against the Crown and the West.”

“What are you talking about, grandfather? Margaery is my betrothed!”

“And betrothals can be broken, _you_ should know… Margaery’s beauty and her family’s wealth brought her no shortage of suitors. Before I negotiated your marriage to her, she had received proposals from the Prince of Dorne, the Lord of the Vale, and, allegedly, Robb Stark, before he made the alliance with the Freys, of course.”

“Robb Stark is dead, the Lord of the Vale is a child, and the Prince of Dorne is a cripple.”

“Robb Stark may be dead, but Roose Bolton and his son are very much alive – and have already demonstrated the willingness to shift sides. Robert Arryn of the Vale is five and ten – old enough to consummate a marriage, and Prince Doran is wheelchair-bound, but he is not impotent, and he has a marriageable brother in Oberyn if needs be. These are just three examples that were given, there is also Euron Greyjoy, who commands the largest fleet of warships in the realm, as you pointed out just last evening. And let’s not forget that Margaery’s brother Willas, the heir to Highgarden, is unwed. He could be matched to Shireen Baratheon, any number of recently widowed northern ladies, even Sansa Stark herself.”

“Sansa is mine!”

Tywin shook his head slowly, “No, your grace, _Margaery_ is yours… for now, unless you’re stupid enough to choose six rapers over the most eligible maiden in the realm – now that your own _sweet Sansa_ is no longer a maiden.”

“No, this is inexcusable! They will not get away with this! I want their heads!”

“As you command, your grace,” Tywin bowed without delay, “I will dispatch men to arrest them immediately, though I refuse to see you without a proper Kingsguard for even an hour; I will lend you six red cloaks – some of my best men. In fact, let’s call it an early wedding gift.”

“Thank you, grandfather. Let no man or woman say I am not a just and formidable king!”

“Never, your grace.”

…

Tywin wasted not a second. Immediately after stepping foot outside the king’s solar he gave Ser Addam a command that Tywin took much satisfaction in delivering, “Take as many men as you need and arrest Meryn Trant, Boros Blount, Arys Oakheart, Osmund Kettleblack, Balon Swann, and Mandon Moore, by orders of King Joffrey. The charges are murder, assault, and treason. Have them brought directly to the Black Cells.”

Addam could barely contain his smile, “Yes, my lord.”

As Addam walked away, eager for his next task, Tywin called out to him, “Ser Addam.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Bring the Hound with you.”

“Of course, my lord,” this time, Addam didn’t even try to contain his smile, and once Tywin was alone in the hallway, he indulged in a grin of his own.

\---------------------------------------------

There was no trial as the king himself sanctioned the execution, announcing his verdict publicly and uncontestably in light of “indisputable evidence”. At noon four days later, the King’s justice, Ser Ilyn Payne, took six heads. Blount and Trant were beaten so badly they were unrecognizable – Tywin recognized and admired the Hound’s work.

When asked if they had any last words, none of the men spoke – then again, it would have been a miracle if they had, since Tywin ordered all their tongues removed. His plan was in motion, and it would not do to have it jeopardized because one of these men tried to take the king down with them.

**Sandor**

Sandor watched the executions from the window of Sansa’s bedchamber. The girl had been sleeping for most of the past four days thanks to a steady supply of sweetsleep, which the maester withheld starting today, as it was toxic if allowed to accumulate on one’s system.

Other than joining Ser Addam and a dozen other red cloaks in arresting the six bastards, Sandor had spent nearly every waking moment outside her door or in her room. Well – that wasn’t entirely true... He found a rather enjoyable albeit short-lived hobby in inflicting as much pain as possible on the members of the Kingsguard – focusing his attention on the worst of them: Trant and Blount. It was satisfying to draw blood not under orders, but because it was justified and well deserved.

“Good fucking riddance,” he muttered as the last head was severed.

“It’s done?” the girl’s small voice startled him; he didn’t realize she had awoken.

“Yes, little bird.”

She sat up and nodded, then noticed his hands. She gasped and reached out, “What happened? Was this from… that night?

He snorted at how concerned she was over some bloody knuckles, given her current state, “No, little bird, this was pure entertainment.”

She looked at him quizzically. He raised up his right fist, “Ser Meryn,” then his left, “Ser Boros.”

She took each of his hands in hers gingerly, as if she thought she could hurt him. They looked so large against her slender fingers. _Birds like a bone, such a delicate little creature…_

And yet nothing about her seemed delicate in that moment as she lifted first his right hand then his left to her lips. Without looking up at him she whispered, “Thank you, Sandor.”

It hurt his chest every time she said his name, like she was dangling a prize just out of reach, but the burn of her lips on his knuckles was the sweetest form of torture.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, “No thanks, necessary, little bird. I’m just sorry… sorry that I wasn’t there. Brax and I could’ve taken all six of those fuckers, plus the blond bastard.”

“Please don’t blame yourself, Sandor; you can’t be with me every minute of the day.”

_But couldn’t I?_

She must have seen the doubt and regret in his eyes, for she tried to cheer him up, using unladylike words she knew would amuse him, “Even I have to shit every once in a while.”

He chuckled genuinely, “I thought highborn ladies like you don’t shit.”

“We do, it just smells like wildflowers.”

“Little bird, if I was going to believe anyone’s shit smelled like flowers, it’d be yours.”

“Sandor Clegane, I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she teased.

He responded honestly, “Might be the nicest thing I’ve ever said to _anybody_.”


	10. Man to Man

**Tywin**

Only a sennight after her attack Tywin was surprised when the girl entered his solar. He rose and moved to help her, but she waved him away, “My legs aren’t broken, my lord.”

“My lady, I didn’t expect you to be back so soon. Are you sure you should be out of bed?”

“Quite sure. If I spend another day _in_ bed, I’ll go mad.”

“As you wish,” he gestured to the cushioned chair, feeling suddenly awkward in her presence since their last conversation.

“Do you have any ledgers or letters I can work on?”

“I don’t think you should strain yourself, my lady.”

She rolled her eyes, a gesture he chose not to scold, “Lord Hand, I didn’t ask if you need me to saddle your horse; writing letters is hardly a strenuous activity.”

“As you wish,” he brought over three ledgers and a small stack of letters, “just please don’t hesitate to rest if you need to, or to retire to your chambers if it’s too much for you.”

The look in her eyes warned him that he was dangerously close to being scolded himself, and he oddly found it more than a little alluring.

He returned to his desk, “I’ll say no more, my lady.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

After his initial concerns dissolved, he enjoyed her quiet presence once again.

…

Just after lunch, Olenna Tyrell paid him a visit. Upon seeing Sansa she completely ignored Tywin.

“Lady Sansa, I’m so glad to see you’re up and about,” Sansa rose and curtsied to the woman who promptly rounded the small desk to give her a motherly embrace. She stroked her cheek tenderly, “I fear you’ll have a scar, child. Good thing you’re more than pretty enough to make up for it.”

Tywin cleared his throat.

“Hush, Tywin, the women are talking.”

Sansa’s eyes widened at the woman’s blunt and casual speech with the much-feared Hand.

“I’ve lived nearly eighty years, sweet girl, and I’ve yet to meet a man with any patience,” the woman rolled her eyes and took a seat at one of the chairs, as Sansa did the same.

“My dear, I planned to come to you the day after that _horrendous_ display in court. I’m so sorry about your mother; men are meant to die in wars, since they’re usually the ones who wage them, but Lady Catelyn did not deserve her fate.”

“It is kind of you to say so, Lady Tyrell, but my mother—”

“Don’t do that with me, child. It is never a crime to love your family, no matter their sins. Human beings are all sinners, each and every one of us; if we can’t count on the love of our family members then what do we have to live for?”

Sansa gave a small but genuine smile to the woman, and Tywin felt oddly jealous that he had not thought to give her the comfort that Olenna did so naturally.

“Margaery wanted to visit you but was worried that Joffrey would insist on joining her. Needless to say she didn’t want to subject you to that, so she asked me to send her regards and condolences.”

Sansa’s eyes darted to Tywin, but Olenna patted her hand, “Don’t worry, dear, I know how to handle a lion,” she winked at the young woman.

Tywin huffed, “Lady Olenna, you are more than welcome to join Lady Sansa in her private quarters to drink tea and complain about the many shortcomings of the male sex, but I must assume you came here for more official reasons…”

“Very well, Tywin, you’ve been a patient boy long enough… I only came to tell you that the shipment will be arriving in two days as per your specifications.”

“I am glad to hear it. I assume the quality has been authenticated?”

“It has, though I shall still check for myself, unless you’d prefer to.”

“Summon me after the delivery, we shall inspect it together, my lady.”

“Very well,” Olenna nodded. She turned to leave before turning to look at Sansa once more, “Ugh, between you and my granddaughter…” she shook her head in good-natured envy, “Oh to be sixty years younger.”

If Sansa wondered about the nature of the shipment being discussed, she was smart enough not to ask.

\------------------------------------

The next morning Tywin woke as he always did at 5:30. He washed his face and mouth then let in his steward Willem to help him dress. Like most days, he dressed in all black, from his boots to his stock tie. On this day he selected his punched leather coat that was fastened with five bronze lion’s head clasps and a belt at the waist. After securing his Hand pin, he proceeded to his side chamber where his light meal of one poached egg, one slice of brown bread with butter, a dish of fresh diced pears, and a cup of black tea with lemon awaited him. He broke his fast in the same manner as he did all things: methodically and without passion. Unlike so many bloated lords, Tywin Lannister did not relish in the act of eating. Food was a basic necessity, and over-indulgence only indicated a gross lack of self-control.

Forty minutes after five he and his guards descended to the Hand’s solar, where he was surprised to find Sandor Clegane waiting at the entrance.

“Clegane.”

“Lord Hand, I was hoping for a few minutes of your time.”

With a single nod Tywin entered, with the Hound following three steps behind.

“I’ll assume this pertains to our mutual charge.”

“It does.”

“State your business, Clegane.”

The man looked hesitant but complied, “Joffrey.”

If it were any other man, under any other circumstances, Tywin would have forced him to elaborate, but he and Clegane shared an appreciation for brevity, and they both knew all the unspoken questions and cautions encapsulated in that one word.

_Why haven’t you tried to punish him?_

_You know he will try to hurt her again…_

_Do you have a plan for him?_

“I’m not in the habit of explaining myself to retainers, Clegane, but out of respect for your lengthy and admirable service to my House and family, I shall assuage your concern: Yes, I have and will take measures to ensure Lady Sansa’s safety from any person who might wish to harm her.”

“May I inquire as to what those measures are?”

“No, you may _not._ It is not your concern.”

“With respect, Lord Lannister, you’ve charged me with protecting her, and I will, with my life… but protecting her from her particular tormentor would likely cost me my head. If it isn’t my concern, then whose is it?”

Tywin studied the man for several seconds. The scarred warrior’s face was stoic, but his eyes revealed his sincerity.

“I haven’t achieved my station in life by making the same mistakes twice, Clegane. Your faith that I will not break that trend now must be consolation enough.”

Sandor did not look consoled, but he accepted the fact that further probing would be futile. He nodded, but after turning for the door he stopped. He spoke without looking back; whether it was to make it easier for himself to say or his lord to hear, Tywin did not know, “If you think marrying her will stop him, you’re wrong.”

Tywin was silent. His first reaction was that Sansa told her protector of her impending betrothal, but somehow that did not seem likely; the girl was secretive, even with her most trusted man.

“What makes you think I will marry her?”

“Because you’d be a fool not to, and you’re no fool. You and I are both men who do not trust easily. I can’t imagine anyone you’d trust with her hand, save perhaps your eldest son, and yourself. Beyond that, I’ve known you a long time, my lord, and I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you look at her.”

Tywin worked his jaw, displeased that his deeply hidden feelings were transparent to not only his dwarf son but the Hound, of all people, “Funny, Clegane… I could say the same about you.”

The man finally turned back to face him, “Are you concerned for her in my company, my lord? Do you doubt my intentions?”

“Not at all. I’ve never doubted your self-restraint, only I dare say the way you speak about the girl, speak on her behalf, _look_ at her… one might mistake it for _love.”_

“Hmpf. A dog doesn’t know love. A dog knows loyalty. A dog can sniff out a person’s truths, lies, character, and intentions.”

“And what does your _sniffer_ tell you about Lady Sansa?”

“That she’s too good for this place; too good for all of us.”

“Too good for me?”

“Aye, I’m including you in ‘all of us’, my lord.”

“So perhaps it is you who doubts _my_ intentions, not that it is your place to.”

“No. You may not be good enough for her, but you’re closer than any other man. And most importantly, you’ve the best chance for keeping her safe. I know you, my lord. It’s your enemies that should fear you, not your family. Only I’m not sure whether you realize that making her your family won’t protect her from… the rest of your family.”

“Your concern is noted, Clegane, though I hope you appreciate my leniency in regards your comments about my family is a one-time grace. Let me worry about the grand scheme, you worry about the immediate, bodily threats. _Strategy_ ,” Tywin pointed at his own head, “and _action,_ ” then at Sandor’s sword. “Acceptable?”

The Hound nodded and bowed, “Thank you for your time, Lord Hand.”

Before he could exit Tywin had a question of his own, “Clegane,”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Can I assume your loyalty to Lady Sansa is not conditional?”

The large man nodded, “I’ve no aspirations above my station, my lord. I’ll shield her back, no matter who is at her side.”

Tywin was skeptical of how a man as primal as Sandor Clegane could live in the shadow of a woman he longed for while she married another. He always thought of Clegane as an alpha male, and two alpha males would never abide each other’s company in the presence of a mate. Tywin needed to understand more, and probed with a simple question, “Why?”

Clegane sighed loudly, “Because she’s worthy… and I’ve been searching for a worthy master for over twenty years… I just didn’t realize it.”

Tywin arched a brow, “You have served both my daughter and grandson…”

“As I said.”

“Careful, Clegane.”

“You want honesty, my lord, you know where to find me. You want placation, look elsewhere,” with another bow, the man exited.


	11. Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to see what Sansa's thought process has been

**Sansa**

There were some days when Sansa found it hard not to curl into a ball and allow grief to swallow her whole.

Joffrey’s attack and her subsequent recovery effectively distracted her from mourning the deaths of her brother and mother. But now, as her trauma and physical pain gradually lessened, grief flowed in like water in a sinking ship – finding every crevice in her mind and filling it with a cold ache.

She knew her mask was impeccable as always. To everyone around her she was emotionless. She could imagine her handmaids and guards comparing her to her icy North when out of her earshot, though she cared not.

She had felt this way before, of course: after her father’s death, after Bran and Rickon’s deaths, after each time she was hurt at Joffrey’s hands or command. But all those times were different, because there was always a bit of hope to anchor her.

She never dared feed the hope, of course. In fact she relegated it to the corner of her mind, almost hoping it would wither and die from neglect. But now she realized that small hope was the only tether to her sanity. Resuming her duties in Tywin Lannister’s solar helped initially by way of distraction, but with each passing day she felt less connected to herself, to the world. Her thoughts were a jumble; it took great effort to concentrate on her tasks. A nagging voice demanded more and more of her attention each day, wearing her down gradually with inconvenient truths…

_Your brother is dead. The war is lost; no one is coming to rescue you from your prison._

_Your entire family is dead… You’ll never hear your father’s voice, or your brothers’ laughter. You’ll never feel your mother’s warm embrace or see your sister’s mischievous grin._

_You’re alone. You are utterly and permanently alone._

_You’re throwing yourself into the arms of a monster, a murderer – the enemy of your family. He’ll only use you as a vessel to carry a son that will someday rule your beloved North. You’re handing the North to the Lannisters._

_You are weak. You are a coward…_

Just when Sansa felt like crawling out of her skin, the king was announced outside Tywin’s solar.

**Tywin**

Tywin noticed the girl’s hand was trembling as it hovered over a blank piece of parchment. She looked queer, and Tywin was about to summon the maester when Ser Addam announced King Joffrey had arrived, seeking the Hand’s attention. The girl’s head shot up and her hands immediately stilled. Tywin could not deny the King’s entry as much as he wanted to.

“A moment, Ser Addam,” Tywin said firmly, nodding at the man as he exited.

Tywin walked to the girl who looked up at him with vacant eyes. He squeezed her cold hand to offer what little reassurance he could. She nodded weakly. Returning to his desk he bid the king’s entrance.

The cocky boy strutted in, eyes immediately falling on Sansa and not leaving her as he spoke, “Good morning, grandfather. Good morning, Lady Sansa.”

“Good morning, your grace,” Sansa and Tywin muttered in unison.

“I hoped I would find you here my lady; I am long overdue in extending my sympathies. The attack on you was unwarranted and callous. I’m sure by now you’ve heard that the assailants have been executed – I hope that gives you some comfort.”

“It does, your grace. Thank you for acting swiftly to bring the men to justice.”

“Of course, it is a king’s job,” Joffrey took the seat across from Sansa and reached across the desk to grasp her hand. Her flinch was brief, but noticeable.

“I’m sorry, I should have known you’d be a bit _touchy,”_ he said, but did not release her hand, and in fact stroked it with his thumb.

It took every ounce of self-control for Tywin not to end the boy with one swift swing of the sword. He was more than capable, and the temptation was great. “Your grace,” his deep voice bellowed, “is there some way I can be of service?”

Joffrey finally released the girl’s hand and moved to take a chair in front of Tywin. The girl exhaled a breath she’d likely been holding since Joffrey entered.

“As a matter of fact, grandfather, I came to discuss Lady Sansa herself.”

Tywin nodded, “Lady Sansa, would you be so kind as to return to your chambers for—”

“No, no, grandfather. Lady Sansa should be present for this. You see I’ve come to discuss her marriage prospects now that it’s widely known that she has been… _damaged_. I do not want to see her further punished by being married to some lowly lord or disgraced knight, simply because she is no longer a maiden. I feel it is my duty as her king and former betrothed to petition for the best possible marriage for her. Of course, I realize her prospects are now more limited, but I think at minimum we should be able to match her with an honored knight. Most importantly, as Lady Sansa no longer has a family to return to, I insist she marry a man stationed here in King’s Landing so that she may be close to you, me, mother, Uncle Tyrion, and Lady Margaery. After all, we’re her family now.”

“Your concern for Lady Sansa is a testament to your generous nature, your grace. However you have much more pressing matters to attend to; allow me to relieve you of this burden. I will, of course, take your suggestions into account.”

“Nonsense, this is the least I can do for my dear Sansa… here is a list of my recommendations,” the boy produced a scroll which Tywin intended to tuck away, but the eager look on Joffrey’s face showed he expected Tywin’s immediate review.

With a sigh Tywin unrolled the parchment. There was a list of five names, each of whom was a knight or lord that Tywin recognized as being in Joffrey’s pocket. Tywin wanted to shove the parchment down Joffrey’s throat, but patience was a virtue. Instead he would placate the king – for now, “I see you put much thought into this matter. I suggest we bring up this topic at the small council meeting tomorrow, make our decision then. We must of course do what is in the best interest not just of Lady Sansa but of the Crown, not that I must tell you that.”

“Of course, of course. Well, until tomorrow, grandfather, Lady Sansa.” Before leaving he took Sansa’s hand once more and placed a kiss on her knuckles, before brushing his own knuckles gently along her cheek. She flinched again and squeezed her eyes shut. The sight of Joffrey’s bulky ring so close to the deep gash it inflicted just a fortnight ago made Tywin’s blood boil.

The second the door closed behind the King’s guards Tywin sprung to his feet and in three strides he was kneeling at her side, “My lady, I’m so sorry you had to endure that.”

Her face was red, and her jaw was clenched. Both hands were curled into tight fists. She stared straight ahead at nothing in particular, and Tywin could easily imagine the murderous fantasies filling her mind because they also filled his own.

**Sansa**

Sometime during Joffrey’s visit a wave swept through Sansa’s mind, washing away all the thoughts that had been plaguing her, and leaving behind a pure and quiet fury. It was exhilarating, this unambiguous and precisely targeted hatred. It gave her a sense of peace that any decision she made to steer her toward her singular objective could not be a wrong one; and that singular objective was the death or utter ruin of Joffrey Baratheon.

She turned now to look at her unlikely champion kneeling beside her, concern filling his green eyes. She wondered with amusement if this was the first time he’d ever kneeled before anyone who wasn’t a king or queen. Perhaps his late wife… but that would have been many years ago, perhaps when he was a very different man.

She relaxed her hands that she only now realized had been clenched. With the lightness one might approach a butterfly she reached her fingers out to graze Tywin’s neatly trimmed beard.

“I don’t want your apologies, my lord,” there was no contempt in her voice, only the truth. His apologies were useless, though she understood just how rare they were – and that some people might covet Tywin Lannister’s apologies like they coveted his gold.

“What do you want, then, my lady?”

“Your action.”

The Great Lion gently placed his hand over hers – the one still rested in his whiskers. He pulled it away gently and looked at it almost reverently, before placing a soft kiss on her palm.

“And you have it.”


	12. A Visitor

**Tywin**

Tywin Lannister braced himself for what was sure to be one of the most contentious small council meetings in recent history. He sat at one end of the long table. On one side sat his daughter Cersei and Lord Varys, the Master of Whispers. Across from them sat Tyrion, who was recently appointed as Master of Coin, Tywin’s younger brother Kevan Lannister, who was temporarily serving as Master of Ships, and Mace Tyrell, Margaery’s father and the Master of Laws. Tywin avoided looking at the empty seat to his daughter’s left, the one his son Jaime would hopefully soon occupy as Commander of the Army. With each passing day Tywin grew less and less optimistic that Jaime would return, but he had not completely given up hope.

No one dared speak, following the lead set by the Great Lion.

Arriving ten minutes late Joffrey finally strutted in. As the large doors swung shut behind him Tywin spotted four of the new Kingsguard in the hall. They wore white cloaks but were Lannister men, through and through. Tywin had hand selected six men whose loyalty to House Lannister had never wavered. They were given significant wage increases to guarantee their continued loyalty and discretion. They were to report to Tywin any potentially damaging behavior on Joffrey’s part. So far, they’d only reported four separate occasions of Joffrey’s rough treatment of local whores. Tywin was glad to know that, at least for now, Joffrey seemed content to act out his depraved urges on women who were well paid to satisfy men’s darker desires. The guards carried a few gold dragons, courtesy of Tywin’s own pockets, to ensure the women were more than adequately compensated for their evenings with the king.

The first half hour of the council meeting proceeded as normal – with each member delivering an update on his respective domain. Joffrey didn’t attempt to hide his boredom during this part, continuing to prove how inept he was as a ruler.

The next hour was spent debating and ultimately making decisions on various matters, including one trade agreement, the adjusted repayment schedule to the Iron Bank, and how much and what type of aid should be delivered to the war-ravaged Riverlands and North. This last matter got Joffrey’s attention, “Why should we give aid to people who fought against us? They don’t deserve our kindness.”

Tyrion answered, “It is common practice for the winners to offer the losers some reparations, it is in essence a ‘thank you’ for their surrender.”

“But those northern savages didn’t surrender, we beat them.”

“No, your grace, we did not,” Tywin huffed, “Their king and commander was eliminated; their armies were very much intact and could very have fallen in behind a new Lord and continued the war for many more months or even years.” In truth, Tywin knew there was no lord that could unify the North at that point other than a Stark, but Joffrey didn’t need to know that.

“Fine, I still don’t see why we should pay them.”

“Winterfell is in ruins, people in the North are hungry, and winter is coming—”

“Sounds like you’ve been spending too much time with Lady Sansa, grandfather.”

Tywin ignored the jab, “As I was saying, your grace, people with full bellies and warm hearths have something to lose and are therefore less likely to take up arms. When children are starving, fathers, uncles, and brothers start fighting.”

“So let them all starve – the children and the parents, seems that would solve our problem more permanently,” Joffrey sneered.

“Roose Bolton helped us end the war and has pledged himself to the Crown. We will not turn our back on him. Same for Walder Frey and Edmure Tully in the Riverlands. It is a very small price compared to the cost of feeding, clothing, and arming tens of thousands of men in battle.”

Joffrey waved a hand, “Fine, fine. Send your aid to the Riverlands and the North.”

“A most wise decision, your grace.”

Tywin took a moment to collect his thoughts. He had rehearsed what he was about to say and anticipated the likely reactions, but he knew better than to think this would be an easy discussion.

“The final matter to discuss is what is to become of Lady Sansa now that she is the last Stark. I think we can all agree that the most important consideration is that she be wed to someone whose loyalty to the Crown is both certain and irrevocable. Her claim to Winterfell and the North is too indisputable to risk marrying her to a man whose allegiances may sway.”

Joffrey was all too eager to speak up, “Yes, yes, which is why I propose we wed her to a distinguished knight of the Crown; someone whose loyalty has been proven.”

Tyrion chuckled, “A knight? The girl is descended from the First Men, she is of the oldest and purest bloodline in the realm and you would marry her to a _knight?”_

“Her virtue is gone, uncle, or had you forgotten? What man would want to take a wife who’s had Boros Blount and Meryn Trant between her legs, and who knows how many other men…”

Tywin wanted to rage but his youngest son beat him to it, “You think a woman’s value is diminished so greatly because she’s missing a bit of flesh?”

“It’s not what _I_ think, it’s what the Gods decided. A pure maiden is the gift and right of a noble lord.”

Tywin reaffirmed his authority, “Let us set aside this topic of maidenheads. We are the rulers of the realm, not a group of Septas. Our duty is to maximize the advantage we can gain from her marriage.”

“With respect, Lord Hand, my son Willas would be an ideal prospect. He is a kind young man who would treat Lady Sansa gently, and I’m sure House Tyrell’s loyalty to the Crown is uncontestable, as evidenced by Margaery’s upcoming wedding to King Joffrey.”

Tywin had expected this suggestion from Mace Tyrell and watched Joffrey’s face redden with anger in reaction.

“Thank you, Lord Tyrell. This is a most appealing option, and I admit I have considered it at great length, but I am inclined to keep the girl closer to the Crown – in the Red Keep, to be precise.”

“Yes, yes” Joffrey’s voice cracked, “she must be kept here. We are her family, now, aren’t we mother?”

Cersei gave an empty smile, “Of course, my sweet.” Tywin wanted to laugh. He knew if Cersei had her way Sansa would be disposed of entirely.

“Besides,” Joffrey continued, “she has traitor’s blood. She can’t be trusted; she must be kept close where we can watch her.”

“Precisely, which was the exact thinking that led me to the only viable option… Lady Sansa will be married to Jaime upon his return to the capital.”

Cersei rose so quickly her chair fell over, “What?!” she screeched.

“Do you object, daughter?” Tywin pinned her with his trademark glare even though she reacted just as he’d expected and hoped.

“Well, no… it’s not that… Jaime is Kingsguard, he _cannot_ marry.”

“True, and it is high time we corrected that mistake. Joffrey will dismiss him from the Kingsguard. Jaime’s rightful place is as the Commander of the Crown’s armies and heir to Casterly Rock.”

“Jaime doesn’t want the Rock father, you know this!”

“It does not matter what he wants! He will do what is necessary to protect the family legacy. He will marry Sansa Stark. Their first son will inherit Casterly Rock and the West. Their second son will inherit Winterfell and the North. This is the only way we can ensure the North does not rise up against us.”

Joffrey was, as Tywin anticipated, gladdened by the news, holding little hope that his uncle would actually return. “Yes, yes… marry the traitor’s daughter to the Kingslayer!”

“No, Father,” Cersei shook her head, “Jaime will never agree to this. If you’re so worried about the _legacy_ of your house, then marry her to Tyrion!”

“Hah!” Tyrion laughed, “Like he will entrust the future of Casterly Rock to a dwarf! Come now sister, you know better than that. And please, don’t worry your pretty head over poor brother Jaime not getting his way – he may never come back at all!” Tyrion’s jesting tone immediately pivoted to one of scorn, “ _That’s_ what you should be worried about, sister. Gods, I haven’t seen you shed a tear over Jaime’s continued absence, but you practically go into hysterics over the prospect of him marrying and taking his rightful place at the Rock!”

“That is enough, both of you!” Tywin straightened his jacket, “As a matter of fact, I am prepared for either of these possibilities you raise – that Jaime will refuse to marry Sansa, or that he may be lost to us altogether. This is my solution: the wedding will be planned for one moon from today, exactly a fortnight after the royal wedding. If Jaime has not returned by then, or refuses to take Sansa for his bride, then I am prepared to take his place.”

No less than four mouths gasped, but Cersei was first to form a coherent reaction, “Father, I thought you’d never remarry after mother.”

The genuine sadness in her voice almost made Tywin regret his decision. He reached for her hand, “It was never my intent to, but I will not let my own selfish wants prevent me from doing what is in the best interest of the Crown and House Lannister.”

“Grandfather, Sansa is unfit to bear Lannister heirs; she is a traitor and a whore!” Joffrey spit.

Tywin cocked his head in mock confusion, “A moment ago you were in favor of her producing Lannister heirs via your uncle. What has changed your mind, your grace?”

Joffrey was at a loss for words, just as Tywin knew he would be. Tywin was executing his plan brilliantly. He stared the boy down, daring him to come up with a reason why his grandfather shouldn’t marry Sansa Stark without confessing in front of everyone – including Margaery’s father – that he wanted the girl for himself.

“Nothing has changed, grandfather.”

Varys finally spoke, “I for one see that this is the best possible arrangement that can be made for the Lady Stark, and for the stability of the realm.”

Tywin nodded at the bald eunuch before looking to Mace Tyrell. The man nodded, “I would have to agree with Lord Varys. Of course, it would give me great pleasure to some day seen House Tyrell and House Lannister joined in marriage – perhaps one of your or your son’s children to one of my son’s children?”

Tywin nodded. He didn’t bother looking to Cersei, Tyrion, and Kevan for their approval before calling the council meeting to a close; he knew they would not publicly defy their patriarch. Joffrey exited hastily, with Cersei following closely. Varys and Mace Tyrell bowed politely before leaving.

Tywin sat in silence, knowing his brother and son were still processing his statement.

“Tywin,” Kevan finally broke the silence, “I pray daily for my nephew’s safe return, but it’s looking less likely every day. Are you truly prepared to do this?”

Tywin took a deep breath through his nose, “I have been winning battles and wars since I was a boy. I have been ruling kingdoms on behalf of inept kings for half my life. Do you doubt I can handle a marriage?”

“I don’t doubt you could handle anything, brother, only…”

“Only what?”

“Oh, Uncle Kevan is too nice to say it father, so I’ll say it for him. Are you really prepared to take a wife who came this close,” Tyrion pinched his index finger and thumb together as if holding an invisible feather, “to being your granddaughter?”

Tywin bristled, “I am five and fifty, you speak as if I’m a hundred. This isn’t Walder Frey marrying one of his great-granddaughters.”

“No, but our concern goes beyond the age difference.”

“Then what precisely _is_ your concern, Tyrion?”

Tyrion pressed his stubby fingers to his lips, “I suspect Uncle Kevan is concerned that, should you become attached to the girl and lose her to something, for example, the birthing bed, or a vindictive king… that it would be more than you could bear. Obviously, I wasn’t there to witness your first marriage, but I’ve only ever heard that when the Great Lion loves – rare as it may be – he loves _deeply_.”

“I have no intention of loving the girl or even become attached to her. She is a means to an end. A means to securing the future of the North and the West.” If Tywin Lannister was being honest with himself in that moment, he would have known his words were lies. But the man had become so skilled in the art of deception, that he often fooled even himself.

“Which only validates _my_ concern, father… that you will deprive the girl of what she deserves.”

“Highborn ladies are born and raised to be married off to highborn lords; Lady Sansa is no exception. And unlike many lords, no wife of mine will be lacking for anything, nor will she be treated cruelly.”

“Not cruelly, no, just _coldly_ … Just forced to spread her legs and bear your children. Gods, she’s already had to do that for—”

Tyrion remembered just in time that Kevan did not know the full truth of Lady Sansa’s attack. Tyrion himself only had suspicions that Joffrey was involved, having personally witnessed the boy’s cruelty in the past.

Tywin ignored the almost slipup, “Then what do you propose, son? That I ship her off to join the Silent Sisters? Let her walk right out the gate and find some pig farmer to fall in love with? She is the key to the North, and there are no duplicates.”

“Of course that’s not what I propose. What I propose is that you ask the girl what _she_ wants!”

Tywin rose, angered by Tyrion’s persistence and presumptiveness, “As a matter of fact, I’ve done just that!”

The look on his dwarf son’s face was priceless, “You’ve asked Lady Sansa if she wants to marry you?”

“To be precise, she told me she would marry me before I asked. The girl is not as stupid as Cersei and Joffrey would lead you to believe. She knows the best she can do is marry someone who will protect and provide for her and her future children and manage to not use her as a whipping post in the process.”

Tyrion sat back into his chair, shaking his head and chuckling.

“What is so amusing?”

“How do you do it, father? Gods, half the realm hates you, all the realm fears you. You drown three hundred men, women, and children, and people romanticize it in a song. You help overthrow the King whom you served as Hand, and no one calls you a usurper or a Kingslayer. You eliminate an ancient family and manage to earn the _willing_ marriage of its lone surviving daughter, who as an added bonus is as beautiful as the morning sun and as kind as the Mother herself.”

Tywin leaned close to his son’s ugly face, “If you think I’ve sat back and benefited from the luck of the draw, you’re wrong. I have toiled ceaselessly since I was old enough to hold a quill. And since you apparently have forgotten our recent history, _I_ did not eliminate the Stark family. Your nephew killed Ned Stark, and your sister did nothing to stop him – even the simplest fool would know that was a guaranteed way to start a war. Lady Sansa’s younger brothers were killed by the turn cloak Theon Greyjoy. Gods know what befell her sister, we only know she fled after her father’s arrest which I’ve already pointed out was Joffrey’s doing. And Lady Sansa’s mother and older brother were killed by Walder Frey and Roose Bolton – if you wish to tie me to those two deaths, fine, but they never would have happened if Ned Stark wasn’t killed to begin with.”

“Careful father, it almost sounds like you disapprove of your King’s choices; your words are slander at best, treason at worst.”

“Don’t play naïve with me boy, if you can’t handle the _truths_ exchanged at the men’s table, go join the ladies of court at their garden parties.”

A silence fell upon the trio, which Kevan eventually ended, “Brother, you know you have my unconditional support. I made my concern known, and I’ll say no more.”

Tywin thanked his brother with the subtlest of nods before looking to Tyrion, who after a few moments stood and raised his goblet, “To Sansa Stark, may she enjoy a long and happy life with either my brother or my father.” Downing the remaining wine in one long swig, Tyrion gave a dramatic bow and exited.

The more cheerful of the Lannister brothers let a small smile crack his composed face, “You know you never have to lie to me, brother, don’t you?”

“About what do you think I am lying?”

“It’s been thirty years Tywin, it’s not a betrayal to care for another woman, or even to love one.”

“Thank you for your permission. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Tywin noticed his brother’s eyeroll as he stood to leave.

Tywin sat back in his chair, pondering the events of the past several days. He tried to resist the swell of pride he felt over another small victory. He felt a trace of worry that he had just proclaimed his intent to marry Sansa in a moon’s turn, even though he told her he would not accept her answer until after he had earned it.

The Great Lion was prepared to set upon his next task – continue to earn more of Sansa’s admiration and trust. It wasn’t necessary, of course – as a ward of the Crown he could force her to marry him, or any other man for that matter. But the idea of taking an unwilling bride never appealed to him. The conquering of lands and castles was a thrill; the conquering of a woman had the opposite effect. The few bedmates he’d taken since his wife’s death had been willing participants – it mattered not to him that they were motivated by his gold or, occasionally, the thrill of being bedded by such a powerful man. Truly, their motives were none of his concern, just as Sansa’s motives would be none of his concern. Whether she lusted for his power, his protection, his mind, or any of his other attributes, he would make sure he was the object of her desire.

No – conquering a woman, dominating her, was not Tywin’s style. But the idea of the _hunt,_ on the other hand, was quite alluring – not in pursuing some defenseless prey, some weak-minded woman, but a woman very much in control of her emotions and aware of her desires. A woman who might be just as calculating and pragmatic as he was himself.

Tywin’s musings had him in a half-hard state. He stopped at his bedchamber briefly to tend to his needs – it would do no good to think with his cock. He stroked himself to the image of the girl bent over his desk, yelling at him to fuck her ever-faster, ever-harder. The image of her face shattering in agonizing bliss is what pulled him over the edge.

…

The next morning he awoke with a youthfulness he hadn’t felt in years. He could hardly wait for Sansa to enter his solar, though he cursed his own juvenile fancies.

She walked in at thirty minutes after six o’clock, wearing the navy-blue dress she’d worn the first day she joined him in his solar. He lifted his head at her arrival, “Good morning, my lady.” She curtsied her response and set immediately to her tasks.

“I must hold court today, my lady. I just learned the king left on a hunting trip early this morning. We will go there at nine o’clock. At supper this evening, if it please you, I’d be interested to hear your thoughts on the petitions and my verdicts.”

She answered without pausing her writing, “Even if I disagree with them, my lord?”

If she was looking up, she would have seen a slight grin on the Great Lion’s lips, “ _Especially_ if you disagree with them.”

“Then it would most certainly please me. Thank you, my lord.”

…

Sansa stood at the front of the crowd standing along the left side of the Throne Room with her guards while Tywin listened patiently to each petitioner and then made his judgment known. It was a tedious proceeding but whenever he cast a glance in the girl’s direction, he could tell she was listening raptly. He was gladdened to think their upcoming discussion was something she looked forward to.

Two hours after court commenced, three dirty peasants in tattered robes came to stand before Tywin. The tallest in the group was a woman with white blond, close-cropped hair. Next to her stood a man with shaggy chin-length brown hair and an unkempt beard. He was missing his right hand, and that arm was braced across his chest in a sling. Beside him stood a small, older man who seemed to be dressed in a maester’s robe, minus a maester’s chains.

“State your business,” Tywin bellowed from atop the stairs where the throne sat.

The trio was silent until suddenly Sansa, who stood not more than fifteen feet from them, gasped. The sound echoed through the large hall as the Hound instinctively pulled her back upon hearing her alarm.

The younger of the two men turned in her direction, “Lady Sansa,” he bowed his head, “Hound…”

Though the face was unfamiliar Tywin would recognize that voice anywhere. His long legs made short work of the stairs and within seconds he was face to face with his son Jaime. The magnitude of the injury now sunk in as he realized it wasn’t just any hand that was severed – but the greatest sword hand in the realm. He stared at his son in shock for what may have been minutes.

“Nice to see you, too, father.”


	13. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just gotta say - WOW - I can't believe how many comments I got in first day of posting this fic. You guys are awesome. I'm glad to see there are so many people who love this pairing, and share my passion for psychoanalyzing characters like Tywin, Sansa, Joffrey.
> 
> Also, FYI - since many of you seem to love SanSan (I admit that's my fave pairing) you might like my other works better than Unlikely Saviors.

**Tyrion**

“I’ve done nothing but dream of this day for over a year – but this… this isn’t the homecoming I was expecting.”

“Jaime, you know how father is. He does not show his emotions even in private. Did you expect him to come running down the steps and wrap you up in his arms in front of the entire court?”

“It’s not Father – though yes, a bit of warmth would have been called for I should think – it’s Cersei. I went to see her first. I thought she’d be so relieved, but she just stared at me like I was a leper. She couldn’t even look at me.”

“Yes, well… our sweet sister is somewhat changed since you’ve been gone.”

“Gods, more changed than this!” Jaime lifted his stump. “She looked at me like a stranger, or worse, like it is my fault I was captured. She cursed me for my timing… what the fuck is that about? And why was she piss drunk at ten in the morning?”

Tyrion sighed and poured himself another glass of wine. He needed it after seeing the state his brother returned home in. It was supper time and Jaime and Tyrion were dining together privately in Tyrion’s room. After meeting with his father this morning, Jaime had visited the maester then spent a few hours washing months’ worth of grime off his skin and ridding himself of his overgrown hair and beard.

“And why is the Hound guarding Sansa Stark? And everywhere I turn there are Lannister or Tyrell men – Joffrey is still a Baratheon, is he not? Gods, it’s like I came home to a city that’s been shaken around in a giant tumbler.”

“Brother, much has changed, and not all for the better. Best pour yourself another glass of wine, this is going to take a while…”

**Jaime**

Jaime’s head was spinning, and the wine was only partly to blame. He couldn’t truly believe that Joffrey was so far gone. According to Tyrion, Joffrey began abusing Sansa Stark – often publicly – shortly after Jaime left for the war. After their betrothal was ended, he graduated to rape. Though Jaime never thought of Joffrey as his son the boy in fact was his – and the idea of a child of his being capable of this behavior made Jaime feel sick.

Equally appalling, Cersei seemed to condone or at least turn the other cheek in regards the boy’s behavior and took her own joy in seeing the Stark girl suffer. Cersei’s drinking was out of control – Tyrion couldn’t remember the last time he saw her without a goblet of wine in her hand – and she had carried on multiple affairs that she barely attempted to hide – including one with their cousin Lancel Lannister.

This news hurt Jaime deeply. For his entire life there was only ever one woman for him: Cersei. The bond he felt for her was so strong that it was physically painful to be separated from her for any length of time. But now he learned that while he was rotting in a cage in a Stark war camp, she was keeping her loneliness at bay by taking any number of men into her bed.

He had to believe she once loved him, but to know his absence had seemingly eradicated whatever she once felt for him proved that her love was a transient thing. He could honestly say that a decade away from her would do nothing to diminish his love, but it took less than two years for hers to evaporate entirely.

What he needed was time – time to evaluate things. Time to determine whether he would be able to re-learn swordplay with his left hand – time to see if Cersei’s love could be rekindled – time to decide what he wanted out of life now that the two things he built that life were taken away from him.

But apparently, time was a luxury he would not be afforded. Less than a month from now he would be given a choice: marry Sansa Stark and take his place as Lord of Casterly Rock – forever shutting the door on his chance with Cersei – or watch his father marry the Stark girl – ending Jaime’s chance to claim his birthright.

He realized he’d been quiet for several minutes and Tyrion was watching him, appraisingly as always. He forced a smile, “Perhaps I should marry the poor girl just to save her from having to marry Father.”

Tyrion chuckled, “Oddly enough, it would seem she’s not entirely opposed to the notion of being the Great Lion _ess_.”

“No! Really?”

Tyrion shrugged, “According to father, she has already agreed to wed him, though I’m not sure she was presented with both options.”

“It sounds like it’s not her choice to make. It sounds like it comes down to me.”

“Looks that way… and yet you look quite troubled by that fact.”

“I need to tell you something, Tyrion, but you must promise not to tell Father or Cersei…”

Tyrion sat forward; Jaime’s little brother always was eager to be let in on a secret.

“The reason Catelyn Stark released me is because I vowed to return to King’s Landing and help her daughters get home.”

“Gods, how did you plan to pull that off?”

“I didn’t, not at the time, I just snatched the opportunity to go free. Only somewhere along my journey home I seem to have grown a sense of honor.”

“Well you know what they say, lose a hand, gain a conscience!”

Jaime glared at his brother.

“Sorry – too soon,” Tyrion sighed, “So I suppose what you’re telling me is you feel obligated to marry the girl so you can get her out of King’s Landing?”

“No – rather the opposite… I can’t imagine a fate worse than being married to a one-handed Knight whose greatest accomplishment is Kingslaying, and who’s widely believed to have fucked his sister and sired inbred bastards.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself. If Sansa can find the grace to accept our father’s many crimes, I should think yours would be a small pill to swallow. She’s quite the woman – wise beyond her years, intelligent, sweet-natured, and – as you can plainly see – rather lovely.”

“You sound rather fond of her…”

“I am. And I’m not ashamed to admit it. There’s a refreshing honesty and honor in those Starks, from my experience… but I suppose this isn’t helping you…”

“Not at all. With Winterfell controlled by the Boltons I feel that returning her home would be not truly in line with what I promised Lady Catelyn. Marrying her doesn’t seem fair to the girl, nor does watching her marry father. Do you suppose I could convince him to leave the girl alone, altogether? Perhaps send her to her aunt in the Vale? She’d be safe there, the Eyrie is impenetrable?”

“You can try, but no – his mind is made up. She is far too valuable for him to let go. One way another, the girl will be a Lannister a month from now. And if it makes you feel any better, there are no guarantees her Aunt wouldn’t sell her off to the highest bidder. Lysa Arryn isn’t exactly of sound mind,” Tyrion widened his eyes to indicate his words were a understatement.

“And here I thought I’d get to relax upon coming home. I think I’m ready to surrender myself to another enemy – any enemy… there’s a certain comfort in having no choices to make.”

“Perhaps you are looking at this the wrong way. You’re assuming it’s your choice, and in father’s eyes it is. But perhaps there is a way to honor Catelyn and Sansa – let Sansa choose her destiny – however limited her options may be.”

“Brother, you’re a genius.”

“So I’ve been told… just remember one thing, Jaime – before you offer her the choice, make sure you’re willing to live with whatever she selects.”

…

Jaime spent the entire next day resting, his body clearly needing time to recuperate from the strenuous journey. Though he woke feeling no more refreshed the following day, he would not squander any more time. He could rest after the decision was made.

Entering his father’s solar he was surprise to find the very subject he was coming to discuss sitting at a small desk reading a document. She greeted him with a soft smile. After several seconds, his father addressed the cause of Jaime’s confused stare. “Lady Sansa has been assisting me with various duties – checking ledgers, drafting letters… today she is reviewing trade contracts for any ambiguous or unfavorable terms.”

The young woman rounded her desk and curtsied deeply. “Ser Jaime, I am so pleased to see you home, though I’m truly sorry for the troubles you’ve faced along the way.”

Jaime bowed, surprised by how genuine her words sounded considering he had fought against her brother in the war. “Thank you, my lady. It’s good to be home. May I express my condolences for the loss of your brother and mother. Your brother was a brave and talented commander, and your mother was a strong and graceful lady. They both had my respect, and I’m glad that it seems you are carrying on their legacy.”

The girl blushed, “I’d be grateful for a fraction of my brother’s bravery or my mother’s strength.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, my lady.”

With another curtsy she excused herself from the room, though Jaime knew it was only to give he and his father some privacy.

Jaime lifted his eyebrows, “I must say father, if you must be closed in a room with someone for hours each day, you could do worse.”

He shouldn’t have expected his attempt at humor to be successful with this audience. Tywin worked his jaw back and forth, “Lady Sansa is quite capable. Her presence here initially was to protect her from your vile spawn, but when she demonstrated an aptitude for finances and other matters it seemed wasteful not to put her to use.”

“My vile spawn? I see we are now acknowledging Joffrey’s parentage…”

“Everyone else does, why shouldn’t we? Behind closed doors, at least.”

“Fair enough, I find maintaining lies takes energy that I’m sorely lacking these days.”

“What are your plans, Jaime?”

“Plans?”

“Clearly you won’t be effective as a Kingsguard or a soldier any longer. What will you do?”

Jaime snorted. He should have known not to expect his father to give him even two days’ time to rest and reflect.

“Well I’ve given that a lot of thought these several months. I considered becoming a jester, but I don’t think I’d be able to juggle more than one ball at a time – and I’m not sure you can call that juggling. A blacksmith… no. A farmer? A cook? Hells, I’m not even qualified to be a washerwoman. It’s amazing how many things require two functioning hands!” Jaime could hear the bitterness cut through his own jape.

His father was clearly not amused, “Then you’re lucky to have been born heir to an entire Kingdom – for ruling certainly does _not_ require two hands.”

“Is that why you’re grooming Sansa Stark? You know I don’t have the mind for ruling, but she clearly does. Now she can be not just my brains but my hands, too. Perhaps you should teach her to wield a sword, she might need to protect her husband someday!”

Tywin sighed, “You have suffered a tremendous loss, Jaime. I am not unsympathetic, but the longer we delay securing the Stark girl the more likely someone else is to steal her out from under our noses.”

“You always were a romantic, father.”

“Don’t patronize me, boy. This is about the legacy of our house and the stability of the realm – things none of my children seem to appreciate, despite all I’ve tried to instill in them.”

“Well perhaps if you’d treated us like people and not means to an end. Has it ever occurred to you that a person should have some say in their own life? In what they do, who they marry?”

“Gods, don’t be so dramatic, Jaime. You think anyone else gets to choose their path? You think the blacksmith’s son complains about having to learn how to become a blacksmith? No – he thanks his father for teaching him an employable skill. You think the farmer’s daughter has time to feel sorry for herself after her parents trade her for half a flock of sheep? If your greatest grievance in life is that your father hands you a wealthy kingdom and a beautiful bride, I’m afraid you’d better get used to your complaints falling on deaf ears.”

“Truly father, how have you survived this long with such a narrow view of the world?! To you, duty and happiness can’t possibly coexist. Everything is black and white – no shades of gray. To you there is no such thing as a second-best choice.”

His father sighed, “Jaime, if you do not wish to wed Sansa Stark just say so. As usual, I’m prepared to compensate for my children’s shortcomings.”

“I didn’t say I’m unwilling to marry her! Gods, can I just have more than a few hours to decide what will become of the rest of my life? If you must know, my intent was to spend time with Sansa, get to know whether we’re even compatible – and more for her sake than mine, believe it or not! I will not force myself on a woman that doesn’t want me. You may be willing to live with that, but I am not.”

Jaime could hear his father’s teeth grinding. How there was anything left of them he knew not.

“Fine. Join Lady Sansa and I tonight for the evening meal in my private dining room. Bring Cersei and Tyrion if you wish; Tyrion and Sansa get along rather well, for reasons I don’t comprehend.”

Jaime ignored what he knew was an insult directed at his little brother, “I’ll bring Tyrion; Cersei won’t come.”

Tywin arched a brow, “Trouble in paradise?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact there is. Happy?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

**Tywin**

Jaime’s return was unequivocally the most bittersweet moment in Tywin’s life. His first-born son was alive only without the part of him that formed his very identity. Even worse, Tywin had found himself – against all odds – looking forward to the prospect of wedding Lady Sansa. With Jaime back, it was only fair to give his son the chance to finally claim his birthright – and the bride that now came with it. It wasn’t just Jaime Tywin was thinking of but Sansa herself. She deserved to marry someone closer to her own age, a handsome and charming knight, not a bitter old lord. If Jaime chose to marry Sansa, he would be there for her and their children for many decades to come. Tywin would be lucky if he saw another twenty years.

…but just because Tywin was giving Jaime a choice didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to steer him in a certain direction. Jaime’s defiant streak meant he reactively opposed anything that felt like an order from his father – not on the battlefield, of course, but in every other aspect of his life. It was like that when Tywin taught him how to read, how to swing a sword… and when Tywin tried to convince his son not to join the Kingsguard of Aerys II. 

Unfortunately Tywin had not been counting on Jaime being open to getting to know Sansa. The girl was charming and sharp-witted, and Tywin couldn’t exactly tell her to make herself be less pleasant company. Tywin would have to play his cards perfectly in the next few weeks – subtly earning Sansa’s affection while pressuring Jaime without managing to effectively sell him on Sansa.

Tywin looked over at the girl diligently working at her desk. She noticed his gaze and looked up, “Yes, my lord?”

“Lady Sansa, as I’m sure you can imagine, my son Jaime is rather dejected due to his injury. Tyrion and I will sup with him tonight in my chambers. I had hoped you would join us…”

“It would be my pleasure, my lord, only… perhaps Ser Jaime would prefer an evening with just family.”

Tywin chuckled, “Perhaps if he were more blessed in that regard – I’m afraid I’ve never known quite the right thing to say to comfort a person who is grieving. Tyrion’s not much better – too dependent on humor.”

“Perhaps what Ser Jaime needs – and wants – is to be treated normally. I know what it’s like to have people look at you like you’re a broken thing.”

_Gods, if she says that tonight, I’m done for…_

“That is quite wise of you to say, my lady. But I rather know my son, he’s always been rather emotionally needy. Hence, I thought a feminine energy might be comforting tonight. If it makes you feel more comfortable about joining us, I already mentioned it to Jaime when I spoke to him earlier. He was not opposed to your joining us.”

“Very well, my lord. I shall join you and hope I can offer some comfort to Ser Jaime.”

…

That evening was the very definition of _not_ playing one’s cards right. Sansa, Tyrion, and Jaime had each other in stitches more times than Tywin could count. The Great Lion merely sat back and watched his two sons regale Sansa with stories of their childhood, tales of battle, and jokes that were more appropriate for a brothel than a family affair. Tywin found himself to be the subject of more than one of those stories, but he knew that defending himself would only make him look sensitive.

The peak of the merriment was when Sansa laughed – a true belly laugh – as Jaime described how he and Cersei used to dress Tyrion up in Cersei’s old dresses when they were children. Tyrion described reveling in his sister’s attention, and only later realized she intended to humiliate and berate him. At hearing this Sansa looked sad, but Tyrion grasped her hand, _“Don’t feel sorry for me, my lady. The joke was on her. I had a grand old time!”_ He then stood up and spun himself around as a woman would be spun by a man during a dance. Jaime chuckled, _“For the record, I too thought it was all in fun. When Tyrion and I laughed over the whole affair, Cersei threw all her old dresses out the window to spite us. It was hysterical.”_

Though his elder son smiled, Tywin could see sadness in his eyes. The girl, always sensitive to other’s emotions, offered a merciful distraction from the topic of Jaime’s twin. _“Well we have something in common. My sister, who dreamed of becoming a great knight and always pranced around in boy’s clothing, once made our brother play the part of the helpless maiden so she could rescue him from an evil prince. They acted out a whole scene. All of us were in stitches, even my father, but my mother found it less than amusing. She said that he would grow up to be well, you know, though my father assured her it takes more than wearing a dress one time for a man to lose his taste for women.”_

Tyrion nearly spit out his wine, _“I can corroborate that 100%!”_ Jaime and Sansa laughed; Tywin merely rolled his eyes. Tyrion’s over-fondness for whores was a constant embarrassment that Tywin had learned to live with by largely ignoring.

Though the discourse did not offer the type of intellectual stimulus Tywin valued, he did find himself marveling at how comfortable his sons were in each other’s company – and that Sansa’s presence did nothing to dampen their spirits. If anything her kind nature brought out carefree sides of them that he rarely saw. Then again, perhaps it was simply the absence of Joffrey and Cersei that had his sons at ease.

Shortly after dessert was served Sansa excused herself for the night.

_“No, San- Lady Sansa! We haven’t even started drinking the hard stuff!”_

Sansa shook her head, _“If this is what wine does to you, I’m afraid of what I’ll see and hear when you graduate to liquor.”_

Jaime rubbed his eyes, _“Gods, Tyrion. You realize I haven’t had a sip of wine in over a year… my head is already spinning.”_ He stood up, _“Come, Lady Sansa, I’ll walk you to your chambers on my way out.”_

Sansa assured him her guards were more than capable, but he insisted. Tywin bristled until Sansa stood before him and curtsied. _“Thank you for including me in your gathering, my lord. It was nice to be around a family.”_ The shy smile on her face when her eyes met his made him forget all about his jealousy. He walked her to the door and watched her walk away with his son and her two guards.

…

The next morning Sansa arrived at Tywin’s solar on time and began her tasks immediately. She acted no differently than ever, but Tywin swore the corner of her lips curved up just slightly.

At lunch he couldn’t contain his curiosity. As casually as he could he said, “You seemed to rather enjoy my son’s company last night, my lady.”

“Yes, my lord. They’re quite the pair.”

He was secretly glad she assumed he was asking about both sons and not just Jaime.

“That they are, my lady.”

“Are they always like that, my lord? Or is it just because they’ve been reunited after so long?”

“The latter, I suspect.”

“You suspect?”

“They tend not to be so – unreserved – in my presence.”

She nodded, “That’s because they respect you so much.”

He scoffed.

“I mean it, my lord. It’s quite obvious to me.”

“It’s easy to mistake _fear_ for respect, my lady. I will not argue that they fear me, I’ve given them good reason over the years.”

He thought she might balk at that, but she needed to know the truth of him. He was not a tender man. He wasn’t a man who hugged his children, who spoiled them.

Instead she only nodded, “That is good, my lord. Boys are supposed to fear their fathers.”

He scoffed again, “They’re not boys, they’re men… at least they’re supposed to be.”

She shook her head, “Men are always boys around their fathers… and their mothers.”

He stared at her, surprised by her apparent wisdom, even if he wasn’t sure how accurate her statement was.

“And what about women? Are women always girls around their parents?”

“No, my lord. Though fathers will always see their daughters as girls, no matter how old they are. Though I suppose some women do tend to act rather girlish in their father’s presence.”

Once again Tywin was surprised by her insight. Her own father didn’t live long enough to see her as an adult. An adult by law, yes – a woman flowered and fit to be wed and bear children, but Tywin hardly considered a girl of eight and ten to be an adult. That is the age Sansa was when Ned Stark was executed. She and Joffrey were supposed to court for six moons then marry just after her nineteenth name day. It wasn’t necessary – a girl was legally marriageable at three and ten as long as she had flowered, though it was customary for highborn girls not to wed until they were at least six and ten. But Ned Stark insisted on a lengthy courtship for his daughter – it was a term he insisted on when King Robert asked him to come to the capital and be his new Hand.

Ned Stark loved his daughter so much he was more concerned with her marrying a good man than becoming a queen. The six-month courtship was to ensure Sansa and Joffrey were compatible with one another. The man was willing to end the betrothal if Sansa was unhappy with Joffrey.

But barely two months into their courtship and Ned’s time as Hand, King Robert died, Tyrion was kidnapped by Sansa’s mother, Ned was arrested by Jaime, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Tywin thought of his own daughter now. He was so determined to make her Queen it didn’t even occur to him to consider whether she’d be happy with Robert – and whether Robert would be happy with her. How would things be different today if they had each married someone else? Would Robert still be alive? Would the Starks all be alive? Would Jaime have taken his rightful place at Casterly Rock? Would the realm have seen no more war?

Tywin suspected the answer to at least some of these questions was _yes_.

“My lord, are you well?”

“Hmm? Yes, my lady. My apologies. I was ‘lost in thought’ as they say.”

“Pleasant trip?”

It took him a moment to realize what she was referring to, “Ah, clever… no, I wouldn’t say it was pleasant. I was pondering how a single action can impact so many things, so many people.”

She frowned and nodded, “I’ve spent many hours pondering the same thing, my lord.”

“Mmm. In general, or in regards a specific event?”

“In general, though one event in particular haunted me for a long time.”

His curiosity was piqued, “Might in ask what that event was?”

She studied his eyes a moment, and he felt somehow small under her appraisal. Eventually she consented, “You tell me yours; I’ll tell you mine.”

“Seems fair. Though what I have to say stays between us.”

“Likewise.”

“Ladies first.”

She looked to be considering arguing but then sighed, “After my father was executed, Joffrey brought me to the battlements to show me his head on a spike, along with the heads of his men and my Septa. He made me stare at them, and when I asked how long I had to look he was angry. He had Ser Meryn hit me. Then Joffrey walked out onto the bridge. He kept taunting me, and suddenly this feeling came over me… this _peace_. Everything was so clear. Everything else dropped away and it was just he and I…”

She seemed to be reliving the moment – perhaps even fantasizing about it.

“I stepped onto the bridge. Two more steps and I’d be there. It would be so easy to pull him over…”

The girl was staring blankly out the window now. Tywin was riveted. He obviously knew the outcome, but was on the edge of his seat to hear it, nonetheless.

“Then a strong hand pulled me back. Sandor wiped the blood from my mouth, but I knew that he knew what I was thinking. Whether he stopped me to save Joffrey, save me, or both of us I didn’t know, and never asked. But he didn’t tell Joffrey what I was about to do…”

The girl’s strange loyalty and trust of the Hound was suddenly quite understandable.

“For a long time I wondered how things would have been different, if I moved just a little faster. Would the war have continued? Would the rest of my family be alive today?”

Tywin finally spoke, “But you’d not have lived to find out.”

She shrugged, “That matters not. If my brothers and mother would be alive today, it would be a small price to pay. I cannot carry on my family name, my family legacy, my lord. I would die a thousand times over to see just one of my brothers alive today…”

She looked regretfully out the window. As much as her apparent pain troubled him, her words resonated with him on a deep level. He was consumed with a single thought…

_She will be my wife. No matter what I must do to win her._

Her eyes snapped back to his and for a moment he thought she was reading his mind until she spoke, “I told you mine, now you tell me yours, my lord.”

“I am a man of my word, my lady. The event I was pondering a few moments ago, was my unwavering decision to marry Cersei to Robert Baratheon. I thought by seeing one of my children on the throne I’d be securing my family’s legacy for generations to come. I thought I could influence peace in the realm through my daughter and her husband. I never once considered that they wouldn’t be happy with each other, and that their misery would lead them to act in ways that were not only destructive of themselves and one another, but the entire realm…”

She cocked her head at him, and he snorted, “Sorry to disappoint you, my lady. Did you hope I would say I regret some man I’ve killed? Did you hope I’d say I regret permitting the murder of your mother and brother?”

Her eyes never left his as she rose and walked around the table, standing so close her skirt touched his thigh. She continued to stare as if his eyes held the answers to all the great mysteries of the world. With a feather light touch her thumb traced his bearded jaw line before trailing down the center of his neck to rest in the hollow of his throat. He held his hands still though his fingers itched to return her touch. He would let her explore him at her own pace, though it now seemed she was fixated on the place where her thumb lay. When her eyes journeyed back up to meet his again, he saw a flash of something new there – curiosity? Appreciation?

He had no time to study her as a knock at his door broke their mutual daze and as quick as a fox she was back in her chair, eating her greens as if nothing had happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I feel the need to let everyone know I don't hate Cersei. In fact I rather like her character in the books, though TV show tended to only show the worst sides of her. But for this fic I decided to go with a very unlikable Cersei because it helps propel the TySan relationship.


	14. Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My chapter titles suck. Sorry.

**Tywin**

The next three days and nights followed a predictable and rather pleasant routine. By day Tywin and Sansa worked in his solar, with the only difference being that whenever their eyes met from across the room she blushed slightly, and sometimes offered him a shy smile that made both his chest and his cock swell. By night, they were joined by Tyrion and Jaime, who seemed to be competing for Sansa’s giggles. Tywin’s eyes rarely left the girl during their evening meals. He ignored his son’s juvenile banter and instead sat back to enjoy the beautiful sight of a happy Sansa Stark. Her marveled at how ethereal she looked by fire and lamp light. Her copper hair greedily captured every flicker, while her alabaster skin was a perfect canvas painted gold by the firelight.

 _Lannister colors_ , Tywin thought, not for the first time.

Unfortunately good things never last, and on the fourth such evening the merriment would be stomped out by none other than Tywin’s daughter.

As they were enjoying their lemon cakes, which Sansa said were her favorite, Cersei entered on wobbly legs. She was clearly drunk – not that she ever wasn’t these days – yet she still made a straight line for the wine carafe and poured herself a goblet.

The foursome immediately fell silent as her presence sucked all the joy out of the room.

“I see my family is having quite the fun time. Too bad no one thought to invite me.”

Jaime turned to her, “Sister, I’ve tried to speak with you five times since I arrived home. Each time you turn me away or ignore me, why would I think you’d want to join us?”

“Yes, and Gods know you’ve never longed for _my_ company,” Tyrion added.

“Fine, fine. I’ve invited myself as you can see. Please, don’t let me interrupt! I believe as I entered Tyrion was telling some story about how clever he is, and the simple-minded girl was laughing like a tavern whore… that about right?”

All three Lannister men rose in unison, but the Great Lion spoke first, “That is enough, daughter. I’ve already warned you about the way you speak to our guest.”

“Ahh yes, our _honored_ guest. The sister of a traitor, the daughter of an ice-cold bitch.”

This time Jaime started to scold Cersei, but Sansa spoke over him, “It’s alright Ser Jaime. The Queen Regent is clearly drunk and does not mean what she says.”

“No, Sansa, she shouldn’t—” Jaime started.

“Sansa!?” Cersei shouted, “I see you’ve gotten rather familiar with her already? Has she already spread her legs for you, or is she making you work for it, brother?”

“Cers—" Jaime tried to speak but was again silenced by Sansa’s loud and clear voice.

For the next several minutes the men watched Cersei and Sansa engage in a battle of words as fierce as any real battle any of them had ever seen, but where Cersei’s thrusts where imprecise and careless, Sansa’s parries were masterful. Tywin wanted to end it, but Sansa was by no means a defenseless victim; in fact, she cut Cersei down one truth at a time. Tywin was equal parts incensed by his daughter and in awe of his future betrothed.

“Ahh, your grace, I see now the source of your confusion as to the nature of my and your brother’s relationship. You seem to be under the misguided impression that all a woman can offer a man is what lays between her legs.”

“Not any woman, just Northern whores like you.”

“Please, if you plan on continuing to insult me indefinitely, will you at least come up with some new phrases? ‘Northern whore’ is getting rather boring.”

“Perhaps it just bothers you because it’s true.”

“Says the woman who was laying with how many men at one time? Let’s see, Ser Osmund was one, your cousin Lancel was two, Ser Mandon was—” Sansa was counting the men on her fingers when Cersei slapped her hands.

“You little bitch! How dare you!”

“How dare I what? Speak the truth? It’s amazing what a girl sees and hears once she’s been cast aside and forgotten about. It’s like I just blended in with the castle walls, not that I minded…”

“Those are lies! You’re lying about me to try to make yourself feel better about your own _daliances_ … tell me girl, have you told Jaime about Ser Meryn and Ser Boros? What about my son? You think he wants his nephew’s cast offs?”

The girl’s face reddened, but Cersei continued, “Have you told your dear _Ser Jaime_ about how you lost your maidenhead?”

Tywin couldn’t take anymore. He grasped Cersei’s arm, but the girl was not ready to surrender, “You mean by being raped by your son? No, it didn’t come up.”

Cersei laughed, “Hah, raped, is that how you tell it? My son is not a raper! He told me all about your perversions… how much you enjoyed being taken like a—”

Tywin shook Cersei roughly, seeing nothing but white rage. The girl stilled his arm though with a simple touch, as she looked at Cersei with no signs of malice in her eyes – no signs of anything at all.

“I feel sorry for you, Cersei. I truly do. You have every reason to be happy. You are beautiful, you are wealthy, you are free, you are a queen – the husband you so despised is dead… you can live the rest of your life however you choose, and yet you choose to be miserable. You’re not angry because your family dined with me this evening, you’re angry because your family is not as miserable as you are – because _I_ am not as miserable as you are…”

“If you choose to be miserable, so be it, it’s your life to live; but I’d caution you against trying to bring everyone else down to your level… you may not like what happens if I should ever decide to join you there.”

Cersei tried to lunge at Sansa, but Tywin held her firm. Without a backward glance Sansa walked to the door, where Sandor and Andre were waiting for her. They peered in at the scene and for a moment before the door shut the Hound’s eyes met Tywin. It was but a second but that brief look conveyed so much. Tywin flushed with a shame the likes of which he’d never felt.

Tywin held Cersei long enough to ensure Sansa had made it to her chambers before releasing her. As if nothing had happened, she smoothed her hair, straightened her back, and walked out of the room without another word.

For several long minutes the three lions sat in silence before Jaime spoke, “Is it true – about Trant and Blount I mean?”

Tywin bristled. He did not want to reveal Sansa’s horrors, but he knew how vital it was that Jaime be on his and Sansa’s side going forward. If Jaime harbored any love for Cersei or Joffrey it would threaten all of Tywin’s plans.

“Sansa was assaulted on multiple occasions by Joffrey and certain members of his Kingsguard – all of whom have since been dealt with. I have no doubt that none of the encounters were consensual on her part, the evidence was clear on her body. If not for Sandor Clegane bringing the facts to my attention, I fear it would continue to this day.”

Jaime nodded, having no reason to doubt his father’s words, as much as he may dislike them.

“Jaime, this will be difficult to hear, but you must hear it… Your son is mad. His cruelty has already exceeded that of Aerys II at his age. I fear for not just Lady Sansa, but the entire realm should he continue on his current trajectory.”

“I see that, father, but what can we do about it? Joffrey is the King.”

“I do not know, son. The Tyrell girl seems to have a way of soothing him. We must hope that after his marriage he will settle down some, perhaps outgrow this vile behavior altogether. For now the most we can do is try to minimize the damage he causes. Tyrion and I have certainly tried, perhaps now that you’re back you can assist us. The boy did always look up to you…” Tywin didn’t enjoy lying to his son, but he could not risk revealing his plan… Jaime always did have an unpredictable sense of honor.

Jaime laughed and raised his stump, “He looked up to what used to be my sword hand. I dare say that if he doesn’t fear you enough to behave properly, I don’t think I have much chance.”

Tyrion had been staring at his father but finally spoke, “This is why you’re marrying her.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You want to protect her... from Joffrey. That’s why you’re marrying her.”

“Need I remind you I’ll only marry her if your brother refuses. And no, I’m not marrying her to protect her from Joffrey – I’m marrying her to secure the future of the North and the West, and to keep her out of the hands of our enemies or our potential enemies.”

“I’ll admit you’re a good liar father, but I’ve been watching you while you’re watching her. You care about her, don’t you?”

Jaime, the less observant of Tywin’s sons, seemed surprised, “Is this true, father? Do you have affection for Sansa Stark?”

“The girl is intelligent, well-bred—”

“beautiful, charming…” Tyrion continued.

Tywin bristled, “So what if she is? You think at my age I still think with my cock?”

“I don’t think you _ever_ thought with your cock. I’m not denying there are many practical reasons to marry Sansa, I’m only saying that in addition to all those many reasons you can list on a piece of parchment, there is also one that is less easy to put into words. It starts with the letter ‘L’ and—”

“Enough japing,” Tywin snapped.

“Oh, I’ve never been more serious.”

“Tyrion, stop, please,” Jaime turned back to his father, “Tell me true, father – would you rather see Sansa wedded to me or to you?”

The opportunity was right there, if Tywin could just admit the truth his son would step aside and let the old lion claim the beautiful bride. But Tywin had never spoken his feelings aloud. He’d never speak from the heart, only from the mind…

“What I want to see is _heirs_ for House Lannister… I want to see our legacy secured. Whether it is done by me or you is immaterial, so long as it is done.”

Jaime snorted, “And what about Cersei?”

“What _about_ Cersei?”

“She’ll not take well to Sansa being married to either of us, me for obvious reasons, and you because the idea of Sansa being her new _mommy_ will be a hard pill to swallow.”

“Cersei has no reason to be in the capital after Joffrey is married. I’m convinced she only feeds into the boy’s worse impulses. At minimum she enables him.”

“You mean to send her away? Where?” Jaime looked concerned.

“Cersei is still capable of bearing children and is still quite beautiful. I’m planning on matching her with either Willas Tyrell or Euron Greyjoy.”

“A cripple or an Ironborn savage? Are you mad?”

“You disapprove, Jaime?”

“ _Cersei_ will disapprove.”

“Cersei will do as she is told! And this time, when she gives her husband heirs, they will be legitimate! I’ll not let the family claim on either Highgarden or the Iron Islands be called into question.”

“You’d condemn her to another loveless marriage?”

Tywin was outraged at how Jaime was still defending his twin, “Were you equally concerned when Sansa Stark was to be wed to your wretched spawn? Or for Margaery Tyrell, who is still set to marry him?”

Jaime swallowed, “Sansa and Margaery are not my sisters.”

“No, they’re better than your sister,” Tywin sneered, “Kinder than your sister, more deserving of a _loving_ marriage.”

Tywin turned to Tyrion, “I’m retiring for the evening. Unlike some people, I have an early start to my days. Perhaps you’ll spend the rest of the night talking some sense into your thick-headed brother.”

**Jaime**

“This is such a mess,” Jaime fell back against the settee the moment his father exited the room.

“Welcome home!” Tyrion poured them each a glass of brandy.

“And you can save me the lecture, brother. I see now what Cersei is, it’s just…”

“I know, you can’t extinguish love like blowing out a candle.”

“I don’t even know if it’s love. I admit I feel rather like a green boy. The past few days have me questioning everything.”

“Well, whether love or not, you and she have a bond. You’re twins, for Gods sakes.”

“You know I’ve never loved another woman? I’ve hardly even lusted after another.”

“And Sansa? Is she lust-worthy? I’ll freely admit she is to me, though I also have come to see her as something of a sister… Gods, perhaps you and I have more in common than I thought!”

Jaime chuckled, “She’s beautiful, I’d be lying if I said otherwise. I just… I’m not even close to being ready for that kind of relationship. I wanted to come home and wallow in self-pity for at least three moons.”

“Well deserved, I’d say.”

The brothers shared a comfortable silence before Jaime sighed, “Do you think he knows he’s lying?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think father knows he’s lying – about his feelings for Sansa?”

Tyrion chuckled, “Well, I can think of a good way to find out…”


	15. A Test

**Sansa**

Her argument with Cersei from the previous evening was weighing heavily on Sansa – though she refused to let it show. Sansa worked through the morning but by midday had finished her tasks and was reading quietly in the Hand’s solar. She didn’t want his pity, yet every time she met his eyes that is exactly what she found there.

Sometime in the afternoon Ser Jaime arrived. He greeted his father stoically before addressing Sansa, “My lady, I know my sister will never apologize for her despicable behavior last night, but you are owed at least that much. I wanted to express my regret over the incident last night, though I fear my words will fall short.”

“Words are rarely adequate, Ser Jaime; the sentiment behind them is what matters, and I know yours is genuine. You are not your sister, and have nothing to apologize for, but I appreciate it all the same.”

Jaime bowed his head respectfully, “Well I intend to offer more than my words. I’ve heard you’re fond of the gardens, but knowing how hard my father is working you, I suspect you’ve had little occasion to visit them. Would you allow me to accompany you on a little outing, with the Hand’s permission, of course?”

They both looked to Tywin, and Sansa saw a momentary flash of anger, though it was quickly contained. As she’d finished her tasks for the day, she did not know why he would care whether she left for a while.

“Lady Sansa is free to come and go as she pleases,” Tywin spoke harshly, “though I insist her guards accompany her anytime she leaves this tower. Please take her two guards, and have Ser Addam lend you another four.”

Sansa curtsied and took Jaime’s offered arm, allowing the knight to lead the way.

As they strolled through the gardens Sansa realized how much she’d missed the sunshine and fresh air. She was grateful to Lord Tywin for providing her a safe space, but she was feeling rather cooped up.

“Tell me, Ser Jaime, how goes your recovery?”

“My injury was mostly healed by the time I arrived back here, but I’m afraid it seems I’ll not be growing my hand back anytime soon.”

Sansa chuckled, “It is a sign of your character that you can joke about such an unfortunate situation.”

“Well, people always told me I was a character.”

She laughed again, and rather enjoyed how easy it felt to be in Jaime’s company. She didn’t know him well before he left for the war but had always assumed him to be exceptionally arrogant. However, in the past few days she found him to be rather funny and often self-deprecating, though she wondered if that was a new development since the loss of his limb.

“So tell me, Lady Sansa, if you don’t mind my asking – how do you like working with my father?”

Sansa felt herself blush and hoped Jaime wouldn’t notice, “It is rather enjoyable, Ser Jaime. It certainly keeps me from getting bored.”

“Hah! That’s the difference between you and I – the idea of spending all day with my nose buried in ledgers and letters is my _definition_ of boredom.”

“I admit not _all_ of it is fascinating, but I’ve never been happy when my mind is idle. I suppose I can see how a knight who’s been in as many battles as you have would find it quite tedious.”

Jaime nodded and was silent for a few moments before continuing, “You do realize how rare it is, don’t you?”

“How rare what is, Ser?”

“Please drop the Ser – you may call me Jaime…”

“And you may call me Sansa.”

He nodded, “I was referring to how rare it is for my father to trust anyone the way he trusts you.”

She scoffed, “The contents of kitchen ledgers and mercantile contracts are hardly state secrets, Ser… _Jaime_. Your father handles all the more serious matters himself.”

“Even so, that he delegates anything to you is a testament that he thinks quite highly of you. I can’t remember the last time my father thought highly of anyone, except my mother, of course.”

Sansa wondered if Jaime’s comparison of her to his mother was meant to mean more than he was indicating. _Has his father told him of our impending betrothal?_

“Then I’ll take it as the compliment it seems to be, Jaime.”

“As you should.”

They strolled lazily a while longer, Sansa naming some of the many exotic flowers. Jaime obliged her by acting interested.

“My father is a hard man, Sansa, and that will never change. I won’t pretend he was a loving father, nor would he ever admit to being one, but that doesn’t mean he is immune to the emotion.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

They had completed the loop of the gardens and were back at the gate when Jaime paused to answer, “Because, Sansa, I feel—”

“Hello Uncle, hello Lady Sansa!”

“Your grace,” Jaime bowed while Sansa curtsied for Joffrey.

“Well you two look rather cozy. Tell me, Sansa, are you working your way through all of my relatives, or do you plan to skip the Imp?”

She ignored the insult, “Your uncle was kind enough to escort me on an afternoon stroll. I was in need of some fresh air.”

“I’m sure that’s not all you’re in need of…” Joffrey looked her up and down while licking his lips. He made her skin crawl, and she reflexively gripped Jaime’s arm more tightly.

“She’s also in need of her supper, nephew, I was just about to return her to the Hand’s solar.”

“No need, Uncle, I was headed there anyway to talk to grandfather,” Joffrey held his elbow out to Sansa.

Jaime seemed unwilling to leave her alone – even if guarded – with Joffrey, “I have unfinished business there myself, Nephew, but you’re welcome to join us.”

“Very well,” Joffrey’s elbow was still extended, and Sansa had no choice but to accept it. She cast Jaime what she hoped was a reassuring glance. He continued to walk at her side rather than behind her, and she was grateful for his presence even if he could do little to relieve her discomfort.

She spoke if only to keep Joffrey from introducing an unpleasant subject, “You and Lady Margaery must be getting quite excited, your grace. Only six days until the wedding.”

“I’m sure Margaery is – women care about weddings – flowers, dancing, and such. All men care about is the bedding.”

“Of course your grace. It will be a pleasant day and evening for you both, I’m sure.”

“I hope it won’t be too sad an occasion for you, Sansa, knowing it could have been you standing up there, being draped in my cloak, joining me in my bed, becoming my queen.”

“It will be, indeed, but I am so happy for Margaery. She will be a wonderful queen.”

Joffrey waved a hand, “All a queen needs to do is give her king sons. The king does all the rest.”

“As you say, your grace.”

They arrived in the Hand’s solar and Tywin’s face immediately reddened upon seeing Joffrey had joined the pair.

Sansa tried to ignore the conversation as much as possible. Joffrey had come on his mother’s behalf to complain that she was being cast aside by the family. Tywin and Jaime put him in his place easily, and while Joffrey protested, he was not nearly as ardent as when arguing for a cause of his own. Despite his relatively benign behavior this afternoon, seeing Joffrey brought Sansa nothing but searing rage, which was only slightly more bearable than the cold dread that used to fill her when she had no one to stand up for her. After Joffrey and Jaime departed, Tywin renewed his promise to her silently with an earnest glare and a slight tilt of his chin.

\---------------------------------------------

**Tyrion**

“I’ve been in battles that were less frightening!” Jaime exclaimed, and Tyrion knew there was some truth in his hyperbole.

It was late and they were enjoying some wine in Tyrion’s chambers, Jaime recounting his afternoon with Lady Sansa.

“If you saw the look on father’s face when I asked if I could take her to the gardens… Gods, it was only there for a second, but I thought he was going to draw his sword. I may have flinched!”

Tyrion shook his head while chuckling. While he was amused by Jaime’s story, and glad to learn that his father had at least some level of affection for the girl, it did not make the idea of Sansa marrying his father any more attractive. He was still thirty-five years her senior and would never be a warm and loving man like poor Sansa so greatly deserved. Jaime on the other hand was witty, charming, and youthful, even if most people only saw the arrogant and entitled young lion.

As Tyrion looked at his brother it was clear that Jaime felt like the choice had been made for him, and he was obviously relieved. Tyrion hated to shatter his mood, but needed to remind Jaime that he wasn’t the only person affected by this decision, “You do realize this doesn’t change the fact that it’s your choice to make…”

As expected, Jaime’s grin melted away, “I realize that, but now I have factors on which to base my decision… father clearly feels something for Lady Sansa, as unbelievable as it sounds, and I believe the feeling is mutual.”

“Oh?”

Jaime nodded, “I mentioned father a few times on our stroll, about how he clearly trusts and respects her, and when I did, she blushed furiously. Like I’d just told a shy maiden that the most handsome knight in all the realm finds her pretty.”

Tyrion put less stock in the color of Lady Sansa’s cheeks than Jaime apparently did, “And if I were to stroll through the gardens tomorrow and tell her that my handsome knight of a brother fancies her, wouldn’t she also blush?”

Jaime looked utterly puzzled, “What are you saying?”

“That none of this changes anything! I thought you were going to take my advice and let Lady Sansa know that there is an option other than our father. Let _her_ choose…”

“Why? To put her through the same dilemma I’m going through right now?! Father cares for her, he feels some _something_ toward her that I may never feel. If she had a year to get to know father and I and make an informed decision it would be different, Tyrion, but she doesn’t. Let’s look at it from her point of view, shall we? Option 1: the handsome but one-handed knight, twice your age, who may never harbor any romantic feelings for you and may still be in love with his sister. Option 2: the King’s Hand, thrice your age, but who already cares for you even if he won’t show it in a traditional sense. Tell me Tyrion, which option should Sansa choose?”

Tyrion rubbed his eyes, “I didn’t say it was an _easy_ choice, I just said you should let her make it herself! Give her at least that much!”

“You speak as if a difficult choice is a gift. It’s not. It’s a burden. This isn’t choosing apple pie over cherry pie when you know you like both. This is choosing between two things that are unknown. Say she chooses me and five years from now we feel nothing for each other, she’ll regret her choice. Or if she chooses father and five years from now can’t stand his cold demeanor, she’ll regret that choice. By making the choice for her I’m saving her not only deliberation today but potentially deep regret for years to come. And at least with father if she regrets marrying him she’ll be young enough to remarry after he dies.”

“Well that’s a morbid way to look at it!”

“It’s also the truth.”

Tyrion was unaccustomed to seeing this side of his brother – the side that thought things through. Jaime had always been a man of action, and typically rather impulsive action at that. Tyrion wondered if his time in captivity made him more thoughtful.

Tyrion shook his head but could see the merits of his brother’s argument. It was hard to imagine marrying his father would be anything but a punishment for Sansa, but perhaps he was too biased on this subject. Tywin had never shown any love for his dwarf son, but it was widely known that he was deeply in love with his first wife, Joanna. It was said that when she died, Tywin Lannister’s heart died with her. Tyrion spent countless hours wondering how life would have been different if she had lived. Would Tywin have accepted Tyrion, loved him even? Would Cersei be less… _Cersei?_ Would Jaime be happily married and installed at Casterly Rock?

Tyrion sighed; it was no use wondering about how things could have been different, or _if_ they could have been different. “So you’ve made your decision? You’re going to tell father?”

Jaime nodded solemnly.


	16. Permission

**Sansa**

The days leading up to the royal wedding were a whirlwind in the Red Keep, and the Hand’s solar was no exception. As each lord and lady arrived it seemed to Sansa that their first priority was to greet the Great Lion. They spoke to him as if he was the king and Sansa mused that with his armies, gold, and influence it was not far from the truth.

All attempted to curry favor with the Great Lion, some less subtly than others. Many inquired about Ser Jaime – no doubt expecting the maimed knight would put down his sword and take his place as Lord of Casterly Rock. Cersei and Tommen were also asked after, and Sansa shuddered to think of the poor man who’d be strapped to Cersei for the rest of his life.

What Sansa did not expect was the number of Lords who attempted to woo Sansa right in Tywin’s presence, most on behalf of their sons, some on behalf of themselves. Sansa was polite as always but found that maintaining her courtesies was exhausting.

When Tywin said nothing to deter their advances Sansa began to wonder if Tywin had changed his mind about wedding her. After their initial, brief discussion on the topic neither had spoken of it again. Oddly, Sansa began to feel nervous. She had come to know Tywin Lannister. He was harsh and cold, but he had never been cruel to her. He respected her, if Jaime was correct, and Sansa knew that not all lords felt that way toward their lady wives. The irony of Sansa’s feelings was not lost on her – she came to King’s Landing nearly two years ago dreaming of a young, handsome husband who would whisper sweet nothings in her ear and shower her with open affection. The men who now captured her interest were as far from that characterization as possible. Sandor was coarse and crude, and decidedly unhandsome despite his impressive physique. And while Tywin was still quite handsome, he was certainly not young – and she could not imagine him ever doting on her with sweet words – and yet here she sat, desperately hoping that this would be the man to claim her for his wife. If not for her fear, she would laugh at herself.

…

Three days before the wedding Sansa had convinced herself that Tywin had lost interest in her – until she found reassurance in an unexpected and rather unpleasant encounter.

Lord Petyr Baelish, the former Master of Coin, entered the Hand’s solar early that morning. Upon seeing Sansa his eyes turned hungry. It was hard to meet his eyes when he planted a kiss on her knuckles.

“My sweet Lady Sansa, you have my deepest condolences on your recent loss. You know that your mother was dear to me, and her loss affected me profoundly.”

“Thank you, Lord Baelish.”

Sansa wanted to lunge at him. She had learned from Sandor some time ago that Petyr Baelish had betrayed her father just prior to his arrest. That he would now pretend to care for her was disgraceful.

“Your cousin, Robert Arryn, asks about you often. He, like you, has so little family left. I hope that after this wedding you would consider returning with me to the Vale to visit with Robert and your Aunt Lysa. I believe it would do all three of you well to be in each other’s company.”

Sansa cringed at the thought. Everything about this man made her skin crawl. He seemed to always be undressing her with his eyes.

Tywin cleared his throat, which broke Petyr’s glaring at Sansa, “Lord Baelish, your invitation is very thoughtful, but Lady Sansa has gone unwed for too long. Her own marriage will soon be arranged. Perhaps after that, she and her husband will see fit to visit her family in the Vale.”

The two men seemed to be engaged in a silent confrontation. The tension was palpable, and Sansa found herself holding her breath. After several long moments Baelish relented, “Of course, Lord Hand.”

He pivoted to face Sansa again, “My lady, if I can ever be of assistance, please don’t hesitate to call on me.” With a bow he was gone, and Sansa finally allowed her shoulders to relax.

Tywin approached her desk, and as if reading her mind, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Still staring at the door Baelish had just exited through, he spoke, “You needn’t worry about Littlefinger, my lady.”

His thumb stroked her hand briefly before he returned to his desk and recommenced his work.

**Tywin**

There was no man still living who’d made the mistake of underestimating Tywin’s intelligence and reach. Petyr Baelish was about to learn that lesson. Ever since the man left the capital for the Vale, Tywin had been in frequent correspondence with Lord Nestor Royce. There was no love between Tywin and Nestor, but they shared similar principles. Lord Royce knew that Baelish was angling for control of the Vale by wooing the widowed Lysa Arryn, and Royce knew that under Baelish’s rule the Vale would turn into a cesspool of corruption and crime.

Lord Royce was smart enough to know to keep his enemies close and had managed to gain Baelish’s trust by going along with some of his schemes all while feeding information to the most powerful man in Westeros – Tywin Lannister.

Royce came to learn that Baelish had designs on Sansa Stark. He hoped to bring her to the Vale – voluntarily or not – and wed her to her cousin Robert Arryn who was set to inherit the Vale when he came of age. According to Royce, when he questioned whether the sickly boy would be able to consummate their marriage, Baelish’s response was disturbing, _“As the Lord Protector of the Vale, I shall do what must be done to ensure the girl gets with child.”_

Despite his reputation, Tywin had never been one to take pleasure in the destruction of a life, but Petyr Baelish would be an exception. His last task for the day was to pen a simple note which his steward Willem would hand deliver to Olenna Tyrell. The note bore a single word: _Littlefinger._

He looked to Sansa, who was occupying herself by reading a book on the history of Pentos, “Shall we retire, my lady?”

She smiled at him slightly, “As you wish, my lord.”

He surprised Sansa by not going up the stairs to his quarters but down to hers. She did not question him as he followed her into her bedchamber, where her gasp at what awaited her had him forcing back a grin. Hanging on her wardrobe was the gown he had ordered for her. He gave the seamstresses precise specifications and it appeared they had earned themselves a generous bonus. He chose the color the women called ‘rose gold’. It was quite the trend in Essos, but only starting to make its way to Westeros. Sansa would likely be the only woman at the royal wedding in such a color. It wouldn’t be quite as blatant as dressing her in traditional gold or crimson, but the statement would be clear enough: Sansa belonged to House Lannister.

The dress itself was sleeveless but had an attached cape that would drape handsomely down her back, and which she could wrap over her shoulders should she get a chill. The fabric was pleated along the bosom and gathered just beneath. It was fitted through the hip, flaring out only slightly past that point. It was structured yet soft – just like Sansa herself. The shimmery fabric was beautiful and needed no adornment – much like Sansa herself.

He allowed Sansa to coo over the dress for a minute before clearing his throat, “Does it suit your taste, my lady?”

She turned to Tywin, beaming, “It does my lord, thank you so much… it’s lovely.”

It amazed Tywin that even a woman as composed and solemn as Sansa would turn into a giddy girl at the sight of a beautiful gown. It should have annoyed him, but he was actually glad that he could give her some bit of joy in a life that had been most unkind for her these past years.

“I thought these might compliment the dress, as well.” He found the velvet box on the table, completely unnoticed by Sansa in her reverie of the gown. He opened the box and saw her eyes widen. Inside were a pair of dangly gold earrings, a diamond bracelet accented with garnets, and a matching ring.

“My lord, this is too much,” she shook her head, hand over her mouth.

“It is just right. They won’t overpower the beauty of the dress – or the wearer.”

She blushed at his words but frowned, “I mean this is too great a gift. I’m not worthy of such things.”

The fact that she meant her words hurt his chest in an unfamiliar way. He knew she was not fishing for a compliment by the look of sincerity in her eyes.

He lifted her chin gently, so she was staring up into his eyes, “You are a lady of a great house, and I’ve yet to meet your equal in grace, intellect, and beauty. You are worthy of this and much more.”

She nodded though looked unconvinced. It would have to be enough for now. The girl had been beaten down for so long – it would take more than a few words, genuine as they might be, to retrain her mind.

“I hope my next question doesn’t make you think these gifts were intended to curry your favor, but I had hoped you might accompany me to the royal wedding.”

“I’d be honored to, my lord, though I worry your daughter and grandson might not approve of that. I’d hate to be the reason for the event to be unenjoyable for you.”

“Your concern is appreciated, my lady. Let me worry about Cersei and Joffrey.”

She nodded again, “As you wish, my lord. Then yes, I’d be honored to accompany you.”

With a single curt nod he exited her room.

In the hallway outside her door he addressed her guards, Clegane and Ser Andre, “There are many guests in the Red Keep for the wedding, and some who have made quite plain their desire for Lady Sansa. Be ever vigilant, even around those who may claim to be her friend.” The men nodded.

**Sansa**

After her selfish excitement faded, Sansa felt the old familiar feeling of guilt creep in. The dress she was admiring minutes ago now seemed to mock her. She tossed and turned in bed and tried to rationalize with her own demons to no avail. Abruptly she got out of bed to hang the dress inside her large wardrobe; she couldn’t bear to look at it and all it represented to her – the betrayal of her family, of herself, and of _him…_

 _Him…_ The tall warrior who’d protected her at his own risk. Who spoke truthfully to her; who was something of a friend and, if she was being honest with herself, a bit more.

Where she admired Tywin Lannister’s cunning mind and the respect he commanded with his authoritative voice and stern glare, she admired Sandor Clegane equally though for different reasons. He didn’t have to use threats to instill fear, and it wasn’t just due to his height. He was confident in his abilities. He trained hard to remain at the pinnacle of his craft. Yet he never used his strength against her, only on her behalf. He was honest with her to a fault. Even Tywin Lannister withheld secrets, she was certain.

But Sandor’s appeal wasn’t merely in his physical power and honest tongue. He exuded masculinity. Something about his very scent made her tummy flutter. The two times her lips met his skin – first on his scarred cheek and then on his bloodied knuckles, a current flowed between them. She felt it, and was certain he felt it, too.

She wasn’t naïve – she knew she could never marry him. He was the second son of a minor house. Though his loyalty to the Lannisters was well proven, he had nothing to offer them in exchange for her hand – assuming he even wanted her hand.

Nor would she subject him to a life as a fugitive, as much as she had thought about it. She had fantasized numerous times about fleeing with him as he’d asked her to do the night of the battle. In her fantasies they made it to a dock unnoticed. They sailed to Braavos, enjoying each other’s bodies for the duration of the sea voyage. In Braavos they lived a simple life. No gold jewelry or servants but bursting with love, respect and passion. But even her fantasies were tainted with the cold truth of reality – that they would always be hunted. They were both far too recognizable, he in particular. No, she could never give herself to him without condemning both of them to a life of running and fear, yet as long as she remained unmarried she felt she was somehow being faithful to him – or perhaps faithful to the part of her that still believed she could have a happy life and a husband who would love her, even if in his own unorthodox way.

She paced her room now like a caged wolf before making a decision. She needed to give herself peace, and she needed to give him permission. She covered herself in a heavy dressing gown and asked Sandor to join her, knowing Andre would be suspicious but hoping the man could be trusted.

Sandor looked uncomfortable standing in her room at this hour, probably even more so because she continued pacing.

“What’s wrong, little bird?”

Her palms were pressed together in front of her lips as if in prayer, “I need to tell you something.”

“Then tell it. I shouldn’t be in here at this hour and you know it.”

“I won’t keep you long, I just… it’s difficult to say.”

He shifted on his feet but otherwise did not hurry her.

“Can you at least sit?” she motioned to her settee, “I can’t say this to you while you’re standing there looking so… _you.”_

He rolled his eyes but complied. She sat down beside him, leaving an arm’s length between them in case Ser Andre decided to enter.

“I…” she felt tears building in her eyes but managed to keep them at bay. She waved off Sandor’s look of concern and blurted out her confession before she could change her mind, “I have a tentative agreement to marry Lord Tywin.”

She bit her lower lip, waiting for his mockery or anger, but all he did was shrug, “I figured as much.”

“You did?”

“Aye, I’ve known the man since I was a child. He doesn’t keep the company of women, but he seems to enjoy yours. As much as he enjoys anything, that is.”

“Oh… and it doesn’t bother you?”

He sighed, “Why would it bother me, little bird?”

Had she misjudged his affection for her? He seemed so unfazed by all of this. To save herself some humiliation she decided to take a different angle, “Not _bother_ you, I suppose, but… make you think less of me?”

He shook his head, “No, but I gather it makes _you_ think less of you.”

_Gods, how well he knows me._

“He is my family’s enemy.”

“Your family is dead.”

“Exactly.”

Sandor sighed again. Extended dialogues were not comfortable for him, she knew, “Look, girl. Joffrey is your enemy. Cersei, too. The Boltons, the Freys… I’m not saying Tywin Lannister is a good man, but he isn’t an evil man either. He does what he does for his family, his kingdom and his realm. He doesn’t start wars, he finishes them. He tries to make allies, not enemies.”

“I’ve come to the same conclusion, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is an enemy to House Stark.”

“Aye, as is everyone south of Moat Cailin and even some north. You think the Lannisters are going to send you to someone loyal to your House? Anyone they marry you to will be your enemy, best you can do is make sure it’s a man who will treat you well.”

“That’s the best I can do? Wouldn’t it be better if I fought it?”

“Hah, with what, your pretty words? Men fight battles, women conquer in other ways.”

She rolled her eyes, “You sound like Cersei Lannister – _a woman’s weapon is between her legs_.”

“Aye, for some women yes. But your weapon is up here,” he pointed at her head. “You want vengeance for your family? Tame the lion, get the bastard wrapped around your finger, then choose your battles carefully. Influence him to make decisions that benefit your people, your North.”

“Hah! Your advice is to beat Tywin Lannister at his own game? When he’s been honing his skills since before I was born?”

“Aye, that’s my advice. And I know you can do it. Beyond that, you’ll outlive him. You’ll be Lady of Casterly Rock… Wardeness of the West until your sons come of age. You can raise your sons with a love of the North so that when you send one of them back to rule Winterfell, he’ll honor your ways.”

“I don’t know how to influence a man. I don’t even know how to seduce a man!”

Sandor snorted, “By being yourself. Perhaps you don’t notice, but most of the men who meet you are in love with you. They’re all vying for your hand and that’s _after_ Joffrey has done everything he could to demerit you and convince people you’re a traitor. You want to slap Joffrey in the face, you want vengeance against your _real_ enemy – marry the only man more powerful than the little cunt.”

She pondered his words, and was ashamed to admit their appeal, when she realized the implication of something he had said, “Are you one of those men?”

“What men?”

“One of the men who are in love with me?”

His face reddened, and it made her smirk.

“Dogs don’t fall in love.”

“Perhaps, but you say a dog will die for me and never lie to me. Personally, I’d not die for someone who I did not love.”

He leaned away from her slightly, “It doesn’t matter how I feel; that should be the last thing you worry over.”

She slipped her fingers into the hollow of his hand, enjoying the instant heat he gave her.

“I need you to know something, Sandor, and I say it knowing it will either humiliate me or pain you, but I need to say it… If I was free to choose, I’d choose you.”

She heard a hitch in his throat but true to form he deflected her affection, “Then I was wrong about you and you really are a fool. I have nothing to offer you, little bird.”

“You have everything and more, Sandor. You say you can sniff out a lie – tell me, am I lying now?”

He returned her gaze, then slowly shook his head.

“They’ll never let me go, Sandor. And if, somehow, we got out of here, they’d never stop hunting us. I know that, and I’m not willing to risk your life – to tie your fate to mine. So my choices are marry my enemy, or end it all, and let the Stark bloodline die with me.”

“Litt—”

“No, I’ve made my choice already. The reason I’m telling you this is because I believe dogs can love, and I _know_ that men can. If I’m wrong, then I’m wrong; but if I’m right, and you feel for me the way I feel for you, then I owe it to you to give you a choice: stay or go. I’ll not keep you in my service, by my side, as much as I’d like to, if it is only condemning you to a lifetime of emotional torment.”

Before she knew it was happening, warm lips were pressed against hers. A large hand was cradling the curve of her back, while another was knitted into her hair. The kiss was rough with pent-up longing. After a brief moment of shock she returned his passion, allowing his tongue entry to her mouth. He had her pressed to the side of the settee as they kissed and nipped at each other’s lips. Her arms wrapped around his broad shoulders and her hips instinctively sought his.

After briefly giving into the urge to press his want against her, he pulled away, breaking their kiss and instead resting his forehead against hers in exasperation, “Gods what you do to me…”

“Not nearly what I want to do…”

He chuckled, “My life’s nothing but a big fuckery. Seeing you and serving you is the only thing that makes it bearable. I’m with you, little bird, as long as you want me… besides, someone’s got to make sure the old lion behaves himself.”

She laughed, “You just want to torture me with your presence.”

“Hah! I’m the one being tortured, girl.”

She dared a glance down to his groin and knew it was true. She should have stopped then but to see the effect she had on such a hardened warrior emboldened her, and she resumed kissing him. They kissed passionately while their hands explored and caressed each other.

Ultimately it was fears of Andre barging in and finding them in this state that stopped her. Though Sandor looked disappointed when she pulled back, he nodded, knowing they could not continue this, and certainly couldn’t go any further.

They sat next to each other for some moments, catching their breath and coming to terms with the whirlwind of passion that just claimed them both. She didn’t know what to feel and could think of only one word to say: “Sandor.”

He responded in kind: “Sansa.”

She giggled, “I think that’s the first time you said my name.”

“Your name’s too pretty to be spoken by my angry tongue.”

“I love the way it sounds. I love the way your voice sounds. You can call me anything you want.”

With a chuckle he sat back, putting some space between them to let his lust abate. He looked to be considering saying something. She didn’t rush him, and eventually he spoke, though down to his hands instead of to her face, “Might have to fuck you someday, little bird, even if it’s the last thing I do before Lord Tywin takes my head.”

She gave an exaggerated frown, “That won’t do; I’m just starting to realize how much I enjoy your mouth.”

He nibbled her ear briefly, “Mmm… and you haven’t even seen all the things this mouth can do to you.”

She giggled but felt sad knowing he couldn’t stay any longer, “Will Ser Andre question you?”

“If he does, I’ll just tell him to mind his own bloody business.”

“Will that work?”

“Aye, he’s not bad. He thinks I’m your friend.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know, never had one.”

This time her frown was genuine.

“Don’t fret over me, little bird. Never wanted any friends. Prefer dogs to people.”

“And where do you rank wolves?”

He smiled, “Might be making their way to the top of the list.”

With an exaggerated bow he left her room. She laid in bed, this time trying to summon a feeling a guilt instead of vanquishing one, but she once again failed. Lord Lannister would get her claim to Winterfell and all that came with it. He’d get to use her body, mind, and name for his pleasure and benefit. She would be a dutiful wife; he would have her respect, her affection, and her loyalty; but he would not own her heart.

Sandor was right, women didn’t fight on the battlefield, they fought within the castle walls. And this bit of pleasure she had allowed herself was her own private act of defiance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I went there. But don't get your hopes up. This will be a TySan story and we may never see any more SanSan fluff...
> 
> Then again, if someone is a naughty lion, his wife may feel less inclined to be loyal...


	17. Royal Wedding

**Tywin**

Tywin woke even earlier than was his habit. He was filled with both worry and anticipation for this day and all that would come after it. He knew there was some inherent risk in the actions that would occur, but the risk of inaction was far greater.

The wedding would commence at noon in the Great Sept of Baelor, with the reception following in the courtyard. Tywin hated being idle for so many hours, so he spent some time working in his solar before returning to his chambers to bathe and dress.

When finally it was time to collect Sansa from her chambers, she was the last thing on his mind until her door opened. Then the sight of her immediately banished all other thoughts, worries, and doubts from his mind. She literally took his breath away. She misinterpreted his silence for disappointment and her smile faded as she lowered her head.

_Fuck, say something you half-wit!_

“Lady Sansa, you look… well, there are no words adequate to describe how stunning you look.”

Her smile returned when she deemed his words to be genuine.

“You look quite regal as well, my lord, and if it is not improper to say so, rather handsome,” she was taking in the sight of his deep crimson knee-length doublet. The jacquard fabric was accented with fine gold stitching.

His stomach fluttered like it hadn’t since he was courting Joanna. He pushed away the slight guilt that caused him – he could not be distracted by such thoughts today.

They proceeded to the Sept and Tywin felt no shortage of pride at the number of heads that turned when the pair walked past. Their reactions could certainly be attributed to Sansa’s beauty alone, but Tywin selfishly hoped that a bit of envy toward the old lion himself was mixed in. The only eyes that didn’t brighten as they walked past were those of Petyr Baelish.

_Good, let him suffer._

At the front of the Sept the reactions of his three children could not be more diverse. Cersei looked, unsurprisingly, livid. Tyrion immediately broke out into a knowing smirk. And Jaime… well, Jaime appeared to finally be realizing that Cersei wasn’t the only woman in the realm. Tommen, who was placed strategically as a buffer between his mother and “uncle” seemed to share Jaime’s reaction. At five and ten the boy was just starting to appreciate the fairer sex.

Tywin purposely sat Sansa between himself and Tyrion and the dwarf kissed her hand and complimented her dress. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion, it was a gift from your father. His generosity knows no bounds, it would seem.”

Tyrion looked to his father but didn’t dare tell Sansa that she was the first person to ever describe Tywin Lannister as ‘generous’.

Tywin’s smug satisfaction was shattered the moment Joffrey turned to face his family. His grin dropped like a lead weight when he noticed Sansa. Even more alarming, his eyes frequently darted to her even while Margaery was led down the aisle by her father, while Joffrey draped her in his cloak, and even after he kissed his new bride.

The pure rage in his eyes could not be mistaken for anything other than a threat, and it only served to strengthen Tywin’s resolve. A sideways glance showed him that Sansa’s face was passive, but he noticed her hands trembling slightly in her lap. He desperately wanted to still her hands with his own – offer some little comfort – but he knew the gesture would only further enrage Joffrey and Cersei.

…

The ceremony concluded without incident, and minutes later the royal family was entering the royal gardens, which were decked out in all manner of decorations including roses in every color of the rainbow. Sansa held tightly to Tywin’s arm as he led her through the crowd of guests. She was charming as always, and he marveled at how she donned courtesy as a knight dons armor.

Tywin managed to ignore the eyes that lingered too long, but his patience was tested when Oberyn Martell, the Prince of Dorne’s younger brother, practically salivated over the girl. “Lady Sansa, I have heard so much about you… and now I’m tempted to cut out the tongues of every person who described you as ‘beautiful’ – for clearly they are liars; you are not beautiful my lady – you are a work of art.”

Sansa blushed, “Thank you, Prince Oberyn.”

The man planted a too-long kiss on her knuckles before introducing Sansa to his lover – Ellaria Sand. The tall and exotic woman pressed a kiss to each of Sansa’s cheeks before running her hands down Sansa’s bare arms.

“My Oberyn speaks true. I hope we will get to see more of you during our stay in the capital, Lady Sansa.”

“That would be most pleasing, Lady Ellaria.”

“You have no idea, child.”

Tywin could no longer remain silent; he cleared his throat and stole the attention. He could not risk insulting the Martells – he had only recently begun to repair the rift between their families – but he would not stand by as they made open sexual advances on Sansa.

“Lady Sansa and I must take our places now; my family awaits us.”

Tywin lowered his voice so only Sansa could hear as they walked toward the table of honor, “Keep a wide berth of that pair, my lady.”

“Your warning is welcome but unnecessary. Prince Oberyn’s reputation precedes him. I have no interest in being a name on what I’m sure is a very long list.”

Tywin snorted. _Good girl._

Taking their places at the table of honor, once again Tywin seated Sansa between himself and Tyrion. To Tyrion’s left sat Jaime, then Tommen, then Cersei who was next to Joffrey in the middle of the table. Margaery of course sat next to her husband, and to her left sat her grandmother, Olenna, her father Mace, and her brother Willas.

Tyrion and Sansa immediately began chatting, and for once Tywin was grateful for his small son’s big mouth. He needed to remain vigilant at all times today and could not be distracted by small talk.

Throughout the meal Tywin watched as Joffrey drank goblet after goblet of wine. By the time the dancing commenced he was unsteady and beginning to slur his words. Cersei tried to slow him, get him to drink water, but the king ignored her pleas.

After his first dance with Lady Margaery Joffrey was all too eager to approach Sansa.

“Lady Sansa, you’re looking particularly lovely today,” the boy leaned over the table to support himself, “Would you care to join me in a dance?”

Sansa faked a smile and rose, “It would be my pleasure, your grace.” Tywin could do nothing but watch as Joffrey clumsily led her around the dance floor, his hand inching lower and lower down her back. At the conclusion of their dance Sansa began to curtsy but Joffrey pulled her in for another dance. Tywin watched as the boy whispered something in her ear which made the color drain from her face. As the familiar melody reached its coda Tywin approached the pair.

“Your grace, would you do me the honor of letting me borrow Lady Sansa for the next dance?”

Joffrey stared daggers at the Great Lion, but Tywin would not be intimidated by the brat. Eventually it was Joffrey who surrendered, “Of course, I need to get more wine, anyway.”

Tywin heard Sansa exhale. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Of course, my lady. What did he whisper to you?”

“Nothing a lady would ever repeat.”

“I won’t tell your Septa.”

“My Septa is dead. Joffrey killed her – don’t you remember?”

Tywin realized the girl was angry and was taking it out on him. He ignored her tone and repeated his question, “What did he whisper to you?”

Sansa glanced around to be sure no one was in earshot, and answered in a low voice, “He told me to come find him when his grandfather cannot please me, that if you can no longer… _perform_ … he’ll be sure to get a lion cub in me, and that even if you can he may do it just for fun.” She blushed as she said the words.

Tywin stifled a growl, “He’ll never hurt you again, Sansa.”

She was startled by the use of her first name and looked up to meet Tywin’s eyes. Through his gaze he tried to convey everything he was feeling – his anger toward Joffrey, his regrets about her treatment, and his commitment to see his promise fulfilled.

He felt her thumb gently stroke the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, “I know, my lord.”

As soon as the song had ended Jaime approached and asked for the next dance. Tywin bowed and returned to his seat, eyes rarely leaving Sansa after partner after partner twirled her around the dance floor. After Jaime came Petyr Baelish, then Tywin’s brother Kevan, who seemed to sense the girl was uncomfortable in Baelish’s arms. Next was Lord Royce, who had traveled with Baelish, then Lord Tarly’s son Dickon. Tywin felt himself growling when Prince Oberyn asked for the next dance, but was relieved when Tommen cut in. The boy was clearly smitten with Sansa, who smiled warmly at whatever he was saying to her – likely some tale of his pet cat – the one that seemed to always seek Tywin out as if it had a death wish.

Little gentleman that he was, Tommen led Sansa back to the family table and even pulled out her chair for her. “Thank you for the dance, Prince Tommen, you are an excellent partner.” The boy beamed from ear to ear, and Jaime and Tyrion both chuckled at his reaction.

Tywin noticed that Petyr Baelish had made his way over to offer his congratulations to the newlywed couple. Olenna cast a glance at Tywin, who met her eyes for the briefest of moments. It was time…

**Sansa**

The cake was being served when Sansa noticed Baelish approach the family table. Sansa was tempted to excuse herself to avoid another encounter with him but before she got the chance Joffrey rose and began clapping frantically, “Our entertainment is here!” He completely forgot about his conversation with Baelish, who eventually bowed and headed back to his own table. 

One by one a group of five dwarves appeared from behind a screen. Each was dressed as a different participant of the recent War of the Five Kings – Joffrey, Stannis and Renly Barahteon, Robb Stark, and Balon Greyjoy. She offered Tyrion a sympathetic smile as he returned the expression.

Joffrey was about to address the crowed when the first word caught in his throat. He tried to clear his throat but seemed unable to cough properly. Cersei and Margaery rushed to his side. “My husband, are you alright, do you need some water?”

Joffrey waved them away and began pulling at his collar as he gasped for air. Tywin stood, “Someone summon the maester!” he bellowed out, then he and Jaime ran to Joffrey’s side. Joffrey was kneeling now, hunched over trying to cough. Cersei was shouting and Tywin began hitting Joffrey hard on the back, trying to dislodge whatever Joffrey was choking on. The entire crowd was silent, only Cersei’s shouts and Margaery’s panicked pleas could be heard, along with Tywin and Jaime yelling at Joffrey to stay with them, that the maester was on his way.

The sight was horrific as Joffrey began clawing at his own throat as if trying to open his airway. Sansa covered her mouth with one hand and sought Tyrion’s hand with the other. Only they, Tommen, Mace and Olenna Tyrell remained at the family table.

Joffrey was laying on the ground now, completely surrounded by his closest family, so Sansa could no longer see his face. Maester Pycelle came running to his side and Jaime pulled Cersei out of the way to make room for him, as Margaery’s brother Loras did the same to her. Margaery was sobbing quietly into Loras’ chest; Cersei was screaming and desperately fighting Jaime, who struggled to hold her with two arms but only one hand. Sansa notice Sandor move from where he was stationed behind her to stand directly at her right, where Tywin had been sitting just minutes ago. She noticed his hand was resting on his sword pommel as if expecting an attack.

Turning back to the scene before her Sansa saw Pycelle shake his head soberly. Joffrey’s body was still. Tywin and Pycelle stepped back and Jaime finally released Cersei who immediately sank to the ground and cradled her son’s head in her chest. It was a heart wrenching sight. She sobbed for several minutes before lifting her head up and meeting Sansa’s eyes in a way that made Sansa flinch.

“You!” Cersei pointed at Sansa, who like a fool turned to look behind her. Surely Cersei couldn’t think Sansa somehow made Joffrey choke, could she?

“You! You poisoned my son! My baby boy! You slut! You jealous whore!” Cersei was shouting at the top of her lungs and once more Jaime grabbed her.

“Arrest her! Arrest the traitor!” Cersei shrieked.

Tyrion who clearly had more presence of mind in that moment yanked Sansa back behind Clegane and Andre, who drew their swords in tandem as a group of white-cloaked Kingsguard approached uncertainly.

Tywin’s booming voice stilled them, “Belay that order!”

“No! She’s a Kingslayer, arrest her by order of your queen!”

“Your queen is grief stricken and not thinking clearly. Ser Jaime, see her to her chambers. Maester Pycelle, please join them and see to my daughter.”

With a spryness uncommon for his age Tywin was suddenly at Sansa’s side. He looked to Clegane and Ser Andre, “Take Lady Sansa to her chambers.” He turned to Ser Addam, “You and Pierce with me, the rest of you go with Lady Sansa. Let no one in or out of her room. Tyrion, come with me.”

Tyrion looked sadly at Sansa before Ser Andre led her by the arm, not ungently, “Come, my lady, you don’t want to linger here.”

…

Back in her chambers Sansa tried to piece together everything that had happened. Joffrey had choked on something – probably a bit of his wedding cake, or some wine – how could Cersei believe that was Sansa’s doing? Then Cersei’s exact words came back to her – _‘you poisoned my son’._ If Cersei was right, then Joffrey’s death wasn’t an accident – it was _murder_.

With that piece of information Sansa drew the most logical conclusion – that Tywin poisoned Joffrey. But how did he do it? Tywin was not in direct contact with Joffrey or his food or wine through the entire afternoon. Even while Sansa was dancing, every time her eyes traveled back to the family table Tywin was in his seat, watching her, as if afraid one of her dance partners would whisk her away.

That would mean he had an accomplice; perhaps he paid a servant to slip the poison into Joffrey’s wine… but she could not imagine Tywin Lannister trusting a lowly servant with such a task – or to not betray his plan to Cersei or Joffrey.

…

Sometime in the evening Sansa must have fallen asleep for she awoke with a start when someone knocked at her door. She scurried to answer it, glad she had not removed her dress, and was surprised to see the Great Lion himself on the other side of the door.

“My lady, I realize the hour is late, but may I come in?”

She nodded and opened the door wider.

He stood in her room and hesitated for a moment. Sansa wondered whether he was about to confess everything to her.

“Petyr Baelish was arrested immediately after the wedding. Apparently, he had said some alarming things to Lady Olenna, which she brought to my attention. His man, Lord Royce, also came forward with some disturbing information. After only a few hours of interrogation he wrote a full confession, seeing that the evidence against him was damning. I won’t trouble you with all the details, but apparently, he had been trying for years to secure a marriage between Margaery Tyrell and Robert Arryn. It was all but finalized when the Tyrells broke it off to secure Margaery a more advantageous match with Joffrey…”

“After your brother’s death, Baelish decided to pursue you, instead. He planned to wed you to Robert Arryn to cement you as Lady of the Vale, then dispose of the sickly boy and take his place. However once I made it clear the other day that a marriage was already being arranged for you, it put him over the edge. He planned to murder Joffrey and during the commotion have a disgraced knight he had hired – Ser Dontos – steal you away to a boat he had waiting in the harbor. Luckily for us, Ser Dontos is a drunk and did not live up to his side of the agreement. He was found passed out in a winesink and has fully confessed to his role in Petyr’s plot. Of course, being that Petyr was the last person in contact with Joffrey before he began choking, it all adds up to be an irrefutable case. He shall be executed on the morrow.”

Sansa was in awe. The story was so good she almost believed it… _almost._ In one day –a few hours, really – Tywin had eliminated Joffrey and Baelish, while keeping his hands clean.

She took each of Tywin’s hands in hers, needing to anchor herself. He cleared his throat, “I apologize for the upsetting day you had, my lady. I wish it could have all been avoided.”

For a few long seconds she merely stared at the man with a mix of emotions: admiration, wonder, fear, desire. With gentle pressure she pulled Tywin’s hands down. He lowered his head as she stood on her toes to put her mouth against his right ear, “My answer is still _yes_.”


	18. Yes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately following prior chapter.

**Tywin**

_“My answer is still yes.”_ Her breath tickled his ear, and when she pulled away, she let her cheek drag against his lightly. It was such a subtle and even innocent gesture, yet it made blood pool in his groin.

Tywin Lannister looked down at the woman who would be his bride. He finally permitted himself to fully take in her visage. Her narrow nose, high cheek bones, long and slender neck. He noticed a dusting of freckles on her nose and chin and wondered how he’d never noticed them before.

Realizing she was waiting for him to speak Tywin cleared his throat, “I am glad, my lady. We shall wed in a fortnight. It will not be a grand affair, under the circumstances…”

“I do not want a grand affair, my lord.”

He nodded, “I’ll task my sister Genna with overseeing the wedding preparations. She’ll visit you tomorrow to discuss the wedding details – dress, flowers, menu, and the like. But I must ask that you keep to your rooms as much as possible. Cersei is understandably distraught, and I fear you would be a likely target of her ire.”

Sansa nodded, wishing there was some way to make Cersei see reason.

Tywin continued, “I’m afraid you won’t see much of me in the next few days. I must make sure the realm is stable during this time of transition. I’ll also be busy preparing for Joffrey’s funeral and Tommen’s coronation. I’ll make sure that Jaime, Tyrion, or Genna keep you appraised of the situation, so you don’t feel…”

Tywin trailed off as he noticed the girl’s eyes glaze over. They became glassy. “My lady…”

She didn’t look at him as she whispered, “Joffrey’s funeral…” repeating two of the many words Tywin had just said.

“Yes. It will take place in three days’ time. Tommen will be coronated in a sennight – then of course our wedding a sennight after that…”

Again he trailed off as she, again, was paying him no heed. “Joffrey’s funeral…” she said again, only slightly louder than the first.

Tywin blinked at her for several seconds until he realized she was in shock. She did know Joffrey had died – had been present when it happened; why was she reacting so?

As she processed the day’s events, seemingly for the first time, a broad grin formed on her lips, “Joffrey’s dead…” she said, with the same passion one might declare herself in love.

She chuckled for a few moments before it happened before Tywin’s very eyes: a dam burst; the girl was crying and sobbing, her slender shoulders moving up and down as she was quite literally wracked with grief. She didn’t need to explain for Tywin to know her tears were not for Joffrey. They were the thousands of tears that would have been shed for her father, her brothers, her mother, and herself. Tears she had to suppress and mourning she had to deny as Joffrey viewed any sympathy for her family as an act of treason for which the girl would be publicly and viciously punished.

Tywin was at a loss. He was not a man to offer warm embraces or words of comfort. He merely stood vigil as his betrothed shattered before him. He thought to call for one of her friends, but she had none – Joffrey and Cersei had seen to that. The closest she had to a friend was the scarred warrior guarding her door at this very moment, and Tywin suspected that man was even less qualified to comfort a distraught young lady. He was sure Genna could offer a motherly comfort, but Sansa did not know the woman other than meeting her briefly, and only within the past sennight. Tyrion was likely the best option, but he was already busy seeing to various tasks Tywin had assigned.

Looking down at the girl it occurred to Tywin that words or acts of comfort were not wanted and would not be effective. In unburdening himself of that pressure, Tywin offered all he could: the truth, “My lady, I am powerless to undo all the wrongs that have been done to you. Nor can I bring any of them back for you. What I can offer is to protect you from any who’d seek to do you harm, and I vow to do so with everything at my disposal, up to and including my own life. You are free to honor your family and its legacy, and that includes passing your values and history on to our future heirs.”

The girl’s sobs quieted somewhat, encouraging Tywin to continue what felt like both a promise and a confession, “I am not a warm or affectionate man, you know this, but I can assure you ours will be a marriage of mutual respect. You will have all the privileges the Lady Lannister is entitled to. You told me once you thought of me as your captor; I do not wish for that to be the tone of our marriage.”

She wiped her eyes and nose with a handkerchief then straightened before him, her wet eyes glimmering in a way that looked not sad but strong, “You have earned my respect and my gratitude, my lord. Though I know your actions weren’t solely motivated by my needs, I do believe protecting me was, indeed, one of your motives.”

He bristled at her candor at referring to his crime, and she took his hands again, “My lord, your secrets are and always will be safe with me, as I hope mine will be with you. I do not expect to know every one of your innermost thoughts, nor do I intend to tell you mine, but I do not want our marriage to be full of deceit and distrust. I only wanted you to know that I am thankful for you, my lord, and I intend to repay you by being a dutiful wife, and – if you permit it – offering what comfort I can to the man who bears the weight of the realm on his shoulders. You say you are not a warm or affectionate man, but will you accept warmth and affection from me, my lord?”

Tywin nodded, “I’m not a bloody Septon.”

The girl smiled at his uncharacteristically colorful choice of words, “Go see to your responsibilities, my lord. Don’t worry about me. If I see you at all before the funeral it will be an unexpected but not unpleasant surprise.”

With her permission to leave Tywin did so, but not before planting a kiss on her knuckles, “Until next time, my lady.”

**Cersei**

The Queen Regent paced her bedchamber in a fury. Her father had ordered the guards not to let her out “for her own protection” but she knew that was a lie. He didn’t want her free to investigate things for herself. Her father was worried she’d learn the truth – a truth she was thoroughly convinced of and could not be told otherwise. Tywin was protecting the Stark girl by denying her part in Joffrey’s murder.

Cersei Lannister was not stupid – Petyr Baelish would not have taken such a drastic and dangerous move without having assurances from the girl. That he would place trust in a drunken fool of a knight to drag the girl away, kicking and screaming, was unfathomable. Everything else about the story she could believe – but not that fact. No, Sansa Stark had agreed to Petyr’s plan and had hoped to be safely on one of Petyr’s ships sailing to the Vale at this very moment.

But her father would hear none of it. Cersei had tried to tell him to question the Stark girl, and when he denied even that small request Cersei was certain that her father was lost to her – completely wrapped up in the Northern whore. Whether it was her claim or her cunt that he was unwilling to part with, Cersei did not know, nor did she care at this point. She only knew that somehow that daft girl had managed to get the immovable Tywin Lannister wrapped around her finger. Cersei would respect her if she didn’t hate her so much. Without her agreeing to Petyr’s plan, Joffrey would be alive. Cersei’s firstborn son – her love, her heir…

With steel determination Cersei realized she could do nothing from her chambers. She needed an ally. She opened her door and addressed the red cloak on the other side, “Would you be so kind as to send someone to summon my brother Ser Jaime?”

The man shook his head, “He’s not here; the Lord Hand dispatched him and some men to keep the peace.”

Cersei chuckled, “He’s missing his sword hand, how can he _keep the peace?_ ”

The guard shrugged, “Don’t need a hand to give orders, my lady.”

“Then will you send for my cousin Lancel?”

The guard eyed her, and Cersei summoned tears to her eyes, “Please, Ser. I am a mother mourning her son; I seek the comfort of family or I don’t know what I’ll do!”

The man grunted but acquiesced, and twenty minutes later Lancel Lannister was in Cersei’s chambers, arms wrapped around her, trying to comfort her as best the simple boy could.

“…but the worst part is that she’s going to get away with it. She killed her king – she killed a Lannister Lion! And she will never pay for it. Gods, I’ll kill the traitor myself if they ever let me out of this room.”

Lancel looked outraged, just as Cersei hoped. It was almost shameful how easy it was to manipulate the lovestruck young man.

“You’re certain she was involved?” he asked tentatively.

“My father all but told me she was, but he is protecting her because he wants the North. As far as I’m concerned, the North can have its independence. That frozen wasteland and its savage people mean nothing to me!”

Lancel shook his head, “Why would Uncle Tywin put the North before his own grandson, his king?”

“Because she’s seduced him! You saw them together at Joffrey’s wedding! He is going to take her as his own wife in just under a fortnight… I tried to talk sense into him, but the girl has turned him against me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she plans to kill him in his sleep after their marriage has been consummated… she probably wants to claim the West and the North for herself!”

Lancel looked shocked, “We cannot let that happen, Cersei!”

“I know, dear cousin, but what can I do? My father has locked me in here so that I can’t get to Sansa. Even if I could somehow get out, she is heavily guarded at all times.”

“Then what can we do?”

Cersei pressed a finger to her lips to feign contemplation. She’d already devised a plan before Lancel entered her chambers.

“I think I have an idea, cousin…” Cersei smiled.


	19. Desperate Measures

**Sansa**

Sansa’s tears had exhausted her such that she slept well past dawn the next day. When she finally rose it was a beautiful day – not a cloud in the sky. Servants brought her food and helped her dress. They also brought Sansa a long white cloak and gray thread. She was delighted to have the distraction of sewing her maiden’s cloak, though wondered how many people in the capital still believed she was a maiden.

After sewing for not more than an hour the whirlwind that was Genna Lannister swept into Sansa’s chambers and began talking as if she’d been planning this wedding for months already.

“Hello dear, my you look well-rested! Gods, it makes me sick how pretty you are, but I suppose I’m far too old for jealousy, aren’t I? Well the seamstresses will be here in a few minutes. Tywin may want a simple affair, but I refuse to see you look like a peasant. Nothing but the finest for the future Lady of Casterly Rock! The flowers will be exquisite as well, you should know – Lady Olenna was kind enough to order some from Highgarden – they’ll arrive just in time, and don’t worry – it won’t just be roses. They have some of the most exotic flowers you’ll ever see…”

The woman continued speaking without coming up for air, “Now, as for the menu, Ty has always been partial to lamb with mint jelly – so that shall be the main course. I know he won’t care one whit about the cake so you can decide that, child. I think for the first course we could do onion tartes, followed by a chilled cucumber soup, then the main course, then a fruit salad, then of course, the cake!”

Genna sat down heavily in one of Sansa’s chairs, “So, what say you, child?”

“Pardon, my lady?”

Genna rolled her eyes as if speaking to a simpleton, “The menu, the cake…”

“Oh, yes, of course. The menu sounds perfect, Lady Genna. As for the cake, I’m partial to lemon curd, if you think Lord Lannister would approve.”

Genna smiled, “Good, now we’re getting somewhere.”

Just as the two women had finalized the menu, an entire procession of servants entered the room carrying gowns and a variety of fabrics. Sansa recognized the two seamstresses who had previously outfitted her. They both curtseyed to Genna and Sansa before one of the women spoke, “My lady, given the timeframe our options are fairly limited. We’ve brought a variety of dresses that are complete or nearly complete from our inventory. If you want something custom, you’ll need to choose a fairly simple design – we haven’t the time for elaborate beadwork or embroidery.

Sansa nodded. Genna immediately began inspecting the swatches – mostly those that were shades of gold, red, white, or pink. As she toiled, Sansa eyed the two dozen gowns brought in. It was clear they were not all intended to be wedding gowns, as some were shades of dark green, blue, and even black. But one in particular caught Sansa’s eye. The bodice of the gown was all gold sequins and beads. The beadwork extended down on each side of the hips. The bottom hem was also ornately beaded. The skirt itself was black. One of the seamstresses noticed where Sansa’s eyes were looking, “Aye, she’s a beauty. Been working on her over a year, in my free time, limited as it is. Of my own creation!”

“It’s magnificent,” Sansa said, knowing her awe was apparent.

Genna turned her attention to the gown, “You cannot wear black on your wedding day, child, it’s bad luck.”

Sansa was enamored by the design. The way the gold extended onto the black fabric of the skirt reminded her of a vine inching its way up a castle. In this case, the gold was choking out the black, just as Tywin had gradually extricated Joffrey’s black heart from Sansa’s life.

“I choose this gown – can you alter it to fit me?”

“Wouldn’t have brought it if I couldn’t, though you should know…” the seamstress turned the dress around. Sansa’s upper back would be exposed through a sheer, flesh-toned fabric. She realized the seamstress’ implication: her scars would be on display for all to see whenever she wasn’t wearing her cloak.

“I see.” Sansa peered down at the white cloak she’d just begun embroidering that morning. The cloak was meant to represent her purity. Her husband would remove it and replace it with his own to symbolize that he was taking her from her family’s protection into his own. But Sansa was not pure, and she hadn’t been under her family’s protection for years. As unlikely as it was, the only people who even tried to protect her were Tywin and Tyrion Lannister and the Lannister Hound, Sandor Clegane. Sansa briefly recalled that Sandor’s house colors were black and yellow. _Not too far from black and gold…_

But it truly wasn’t Sandor that motivated her decision. Sansa wanted to make a statement. She wasn’t some helpless maiden surrendering herself to her lord husband’s protection. She was a wolf – and soon she’d be a lion, too. Let all those in attendance see her scars – see what she had survived, no thanks to them. Let them see that Tywin Lannister wasn’t taking her just for her beauty or her claim but because he would settle for nothing less than a lioness at his side.

Sansa lifted the maiden cloak and addressed the seamstress even as she stared down at the object in her hands, “You’re right, the back of this dress is far too beautiful to be covered up.” She tossed the cloak on the pile of cast aside fabric swatches Genna had sorted through.

Three sets of eyes went wide, but it was Genna whose face was first to break into a grin, “Oh, I like this girl!”

\----------------------------------------------------------

Sansa laid in bed that night feeling positively reborn. Joffrey was dead and she would soon be married to the most powerful man in Westeros. She couldn’t help but think about Sandor’s words – he was so confident that Sansa would work her will through Tywin Lannister. Of course, she knew the man was too smart to be outright manipulated, but Sansa knew he trusted her opinion. She could influence him to make decisions that benefited the North and brought continued peace and prosperity to the realm. For the next few years until Tommen came of age, Tywin would be the king in all but name, meaning Sansa would be his queen. The powerful feeling was heady, though it was not born out of pride. It was born out of a deep desire to see wrongs righted – to see justice for the oppressed. That was the type of queen Sansa had imagined herself to be two years ago when she was first betrothed to Joffrey. Now that he was dead all those dreams flooded back into her mind. She could be that queen for the people, even if she’d never carry the title – not just by influencing Tywin but by helping see that Tommen learned her values. She would spend time with the young king who she knew looked up to her and, truth be told, was a bit infatuated with her.

Sleep would not come easily as so many exciting thoughts came to mind. She’d finally felt her eyes get heavy when she heard a rhythmic tapping outside her balcony door. She ignored it at first but as the annoying sound continued, she went to investigate. It was a windy night; she must have left something hung over the railing and the wind was blowing it against the stone.

She slid the door open but saw nothing and assumed the sound must have been coming from some distance away. Turning to enter her room her yelp was muffled when a cold hand clamped down over her mouth. She yanked at the wrist desperately, but the assailant’s other hand was pushing both of hers away.

Fighting each of the hands with each of hers was futile as the man was obviously bigger and stronger than she. She needed to make a noise to alert Sandor and Andre to her peril. She began kicking backwards hoping to catch the man in the shin or knee, but he kept evading her and was gradually using his weight to lower her to the floor, all while keeping his left hand firmly clamped over her mouth. His right hand momentarily left her field of vision and she was forced to put her hands on the floor to avoid being laid flat on her belly. She locked her elbows, but the man’s weight bore down on her. And then she saw it – the right hand returned into her periphery with a shiny metal object in it.

_A dagger._

Whether it was panic, survival instinct, or sound thinking Sansa used her new leverage of being on her hands and knees to push upwards with all her might up against the attacker’s body. The back of her head hit his face hard, and his hand dropped away long enough for Sansa to scream.

Less than a heartbeat later Sandor and Andre were rushing into her room. The latter hauled Sansa up into his arms while Sandor drew his sword and approached the attacker.

“What the fuck are you doing, boy?” the Hound snarled.

Sansa finally turned her head to see her would-be murderer: Lancel Lannister!

Sandor had the young man backed up against a wall – literally – and the point of Sandor’s longsword was pressed every so lightly at the boy’s throat. Blood was dripping from his nose, and it gave Sansa satisfaction to know that she had done that.

Lancel pleaded his case desperately, “She killed Joffrey! She’s a Kingslayer and must be punished. She’s convinced my uncle of her innocence! She- she… she used her feminine wiles to seduce him, to convince him to marry her. I’m only acting to bring justice to our slain king!”

“Boy, you’re even dumber than you look,” Sandor shook his head. Without turning he called out to Andre, “Go summon Lord Lannister, this one’s no threat.”

Sansa approached Sandor. “Keep more than arm’s length away, little bird. This one’s just stupid enough to try to grab for you even if it’ll cost his head.”

Sansa nodded, “Lancel – who told you that Lord Lannister and I are to be wed?”

Lancel clamped his mouth shut. Sansa pressed on, knowing how she could get the truth, “Only three people know, and I’m certain that neither I nor Lord Lannister told you. That means it was Cersei.”

It didn’t even occur to the boy she was lying, and with only a bit of reluctance he nodded.

“So I’ll assume that Cersei is also the one who told you that I killed Joffrey, and that I plan to marry and then murder Lord Lannister.”

He shook his head defiantly.

“That’s too bad. If Cersei had _coerced_ you into attacking me by telling you lies – and they are indeed lies – then I’m sure your uncle would be merciful. But if you concocted this plan all on your own, of your own accord – well, I fear for you.” She shook her head pityingly, “I can only imagine what the Great Lion will do to someone who tried to kill his betrothed.”

Lancel’s eyes went wide, “He _wouldn’t_. I did this to save him! Cersei said you are going to marry Uncle Tywin and then murder him in his sleep so that you can claim Casterly Rock and Winterfell for yourself!”

Sansa laughed, “And you think Westerners would follow me after I murder their liege lord?”

He seemed to only now realize how improbable that would be.

“And anyway, you do realize that until I bear Lord Tywin heirs, Ser Jaime or Lord Tyrion would be able to claim Casterly Rock?”

Lancel’s cheeks reddened.

“Oh Lancel, if only you had taken a moment to think before scaling the walls. Why were you in such a rush?”

“Cersei told me I must act quickly! She told me which balcony is yours and that I must climb up and kill you tonight because if I wait any longer, I would risk you making your way into Uncle Tywin’s bed.”

The Hound snorted again, “Boy, the gods gave you a brain; I suggest if you survive your uncle’s wrath you learn how to use it.”

“Sage advice,” Tywin’s voice boomed from the doorway. Sansa turned to face him while Sandor kept his eyes fixed on his captive.

“Lady Sansa, please come stand with Ser Andre,” Tywin stated, more command than request.

Sansa did as she was bid as Tywin took her place a few feet from Lancel. He stared at his nephew for several seconds, shame pouring off of him in waves.

“You took the word of a distraught mother who lost her son not two days ago? It didn’t occur to you that she might not be in the right state of mind?”

“I’m sorry, uncle! She seemed so calm, so rational. It all made sense!”

Tywin scoffed, “Take him away. Throw him in a cell so he can ponder his stupidity. And someone summon his father.”

Andre and Sandor left with Lancel easily restrained. Tywin looked to Sansa, “Are you hurt, my lady?”

“No, my lord.”

“What happened?”

Sansa told him the details of Lancel’s attack. She thought she spotted a hint of pride in his eyes as she spoke of head butting Lancel.

“I heard how you spoke to him – how you got him to confess everything. Lancel is not the smartest Lannister by far, but it was impressive nonetheless for someone inexperienced in interrogation.”

“I’d hardly call it interrogation, my lord. More like tricking my little sister into confessing that she was responsible for whatever misdeed I’d been accused of by my parents.”

Tywin snorted, “Still impressive to have a level head so quickly after being attacked.”

Tywin continued staring at Sansa and lifted his thumb to stroke her cheek along the scar left by Joffrey’s heinous ring. After nearly a minute his gaze was unbearable, “What is it, my lord?”

He shook his head slightly, “I was just wondering whether you are a she-wolf or a lioness.”

Sansa chuckled involuntarily. Remembering her earlier revelation she shrugged her shoulders and gave an honest answer, “Both.”

Tywin snorted at that, “I believe you are right, my lady.”

She didn’t want to break Tywin’s apparent admiration of her, but she needed assurances, “My lord, what will you do with Cersei?”

His hand dropped away from her cheek and he straightened his back, “I have not yet decided, but clearly she will need to be watched much more closely.”

Sansa was hurt and shocked by his words. This was his response to an attack on his betrothed’s life?

Sansa shook her head, not caring to hide her displeasure, but Tywin would not be intimidated, “You disapprove, my lady?” he spoke harshly.

“I’d expect your response to a murder plot against your betrothed would not be something you’d need to think over.”

Tywin took a deep breath, “When the alleged culprit is a woman in a compromised mental and emotional state due to the death of her firstborn son, I think there is _much_ to think over.”

“You mean when the alleged culprit is your daughter? Do you take into account the mental and emotional state of every person tried for murder? Before you answer, please recall I’ve watched you preside over murder trials.”

Tywin stepped closer, surely trying to use his height to intimidate her, “Cersei is not acting as herself and you know it.”

“I know no such thing! I’ve lived under Cersei’s thumb for two years and I can assure you her actions today were very much in line with everything I’ve observed of her in that time. And are you forgetting the dinner with Tyrion and Ser Jaime? That was _before_ her beloved son died!”

“I will not explain myself to you, nor should I have to.”

Sansa met his glare with her own before deciding now was not the time to fight for dominance, “Of course not, my lord. I trust you’ll make the right decision.”

The rapid change in her demeanor seemed to throw him off balance for it took him a while to form a response, “I’m glad we are in alignment. Rest now, my lady. And do not open your balcony door for any reason while you’re alone in this room.”

She nodded, “As it please you, my lord.” She curtsied deeply and watched Tywin’s confused expression as he exited.

_Good. Let him wonder if I’m mocking him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's chosen dress (URL, because I can't figure out how to embed photos): https://dresscomeon.storenvy.com/collections/716325-graduation-dresses/products/11383773-new-arrival-gold-lace-black-prom-dresses-mermaid-prom-dress-crystal-long-eve


	20. Wolf or Bird?

**Sansa**

Thank the Gods for Tyrion Lannister, Sansa would never have survived Joffrey’s funeral without him by her side. He gave her the strength to withstand the murderous glares Cersei sent her way, while resisting her own murderous desires. A part of her she didn’t know existed hoped Cersei would be stupid enough to attack her, so Sansa would get to enjoy watching Sandor cut her down. An even more shameful part of her fantasized about ending Cersei with her own bare hands.

Sansa excused herself at the earliest moment that was not improper, and Tyrion joined her soon after in her chambers.

“Well, my lady, I’ve seen my fair share of awkward family functions, but that one was a record-breaker.”

Sansa shook her head, “I’m fairly certain she thought if she stared hard enough, I’d burst into flames.”

“Gods, if Cersei ever develops _that_ power the entire realm is fucked… her hate list could stretch to Essos and back.”

“Well, not to brag, but I think I’m number one on that list,” Sansa stated with mock smugness.

“Hah, sorry my lady, that honor belongs to me…”

“Fine, I’ll settle for second place.”

“Humble as ever… so, enough about Cersei, how go the wedding preparations?”

“You’ll have to ask your aunt. I picked the dress and the cake filling. The rest is entirely her prerogative.”

“Seems cruel to deprive a bride of that fun?”

“Hmpf, I used to think such things were fun. Now it all seems so excessive… so wasteful. Everyone in the Crownlands could have been fed off the leftovers from Joffrey and Margaery’s wedding.”

“Well it’s a sign of your character that you even notice the inequity of it all.”

“Perhaps, though my sympathy isn’t helping the orphans.”

“No, but I happen to know a rather wealthy man who’d be willing to fund the philanthropic activities of his lovely young bride.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Strife already? You know that’s supposed to come _after_ the nuptials, don’t you?”

“It’s not like that it’s just… Cersei.” Sansa practically growled her name.

“Driving a wedge?”

“I just don’t see how attempted murder of his betrothed is acceptable. When I agreed to marry him I did so with a condition – that should he ever be forced to choose between his new family and his first family, he’d choose me. Of course it was Joffrey and Cersei I had in mind, I hope you realize. We’re not even married and he’s already breaking his promise. What should I do?”

“Give him a chance to deal with her in his own way. My father is a methodical man. He does not act rashly or impulsively, but nor does he let himself be walked over – even by family.”

“I suppose you’re right, I just don’t feel safe while she’s alive, while she’s _here._ ”

“Don’t worry,” Tyrion patted her hand sympathetically, “she’s heavily guarded and so are you. The big man at your door won’t hesitate to cut down anyone that tries to get in. As a matter of fact, I think he rather yearns for the opportunity.”

Sansa smiled thinking of her fierce protector, though she couldn’t help but wonder whether her husband would ever protect her as fiercely. As the days passed, she felt less convinced that his action against Joffrey was for her benefit at all. Perhaps he would have killed the reckless king regardless, and only tried to capitalize on the situation to curry her favor.

…

The next several days were rather uneventful. Sansa did lots of embroidery and reading and took walks in the garden with Lady Genna and Lady Dorna – Kevan Lannister’s wife. She prayed at both the Sept and the Godswood. With little to occupy her time she wrote a letter to her half-brother Jon Snow who was serving in the Night’s Watch. He was the only family she had left, and she felt he deserved to know about her wedding to Tywin Lannister. She asked Tyrion to have Maester Pycelle send the raven, leaving the scroll unsealed so he could read the letter if desired, though Tyrion scoffed at her when she told him this.

As for her betrothed, she saw very little of him, though occasionally met his eyes when they crossed paths in the courtyard. Whenever they did Tywin slowed his pace as if trying to prolong the amount of time they occupied the same space. Sansa always nodded politely but didn’t linger.

During Tommen’s coronation, Sansa stood again with Tyrion. It seemed that Tywin had instructed his youngest son to keep Sansa away from Cersei. Sansa wondered whether the rest of their marriage would be spent this way.

Four nights before their wedding Sansa was invited to dine with Genna, Kevan, Dorna, and Tyrion. She wasn’t in the mood for company but did not wish to be rude to her future family members – particularly the four people who actually treated her with some level of fondness. She arrived on time to Kevan’s chambers, but the others were already there and already imbibing. Tyrion and Genna were giggling over something. Dorna – the more proper of the two women – blushed, “You’ll have to forgive my good-sister and nephew, Lady Sansa… it seems they’re in rather giddy spirits this evening.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my lady. The world needs more giddiness, if you ask me.”

“That’s my girl,” Genna exclaimed, “You ask me, this one might actually have Tywin cracking a smile if you give her enough time.”

“Gods, better have the maester ready, he might hurt himself!” Tyrion japed to Genna’s amusement.

Dorna seemed uncomfortable, “Perhaps this isn’t the proper way to speak of our Lord Hand.”

“You mean my brother? Relax, Dorna, we’re all family here.”

Dorna ignored her and turned her attention back to Sansa, “So tell me all about your dress, dear.”

“No!” Genna cried out, “Don’t tell her a thing, girl. I want to see everyone’s jaws drop.”

Tyrion sat up, “I’m intrigued – will their jaws be dropping in awe of her ethereal beauty, or should I prepare myself for something more scandalous?”

“You’ll not pry any details out of me, nephew.”

“Will you at least tell me whether it will please me lord father?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Sansa said bluntly.

“Now I’m _very_ intrigued. Give us at least a hint, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa was about to tell him the colors but Genna hushed her, “Girl, don’t you say a thing.”

“Fine!” Dorna huffed, “So, who is going to walk you down the aisle, or is that a secret, too?”

“Well, there are a few options. At first, I considered Sandor, but he doesn’t like being the center of attention. Then I thought of Ser Jaime or Lord Tyrion, but if I choose one the other will be insulted. So I may ask Tommen to do it. I think it would make him feel special.”

“More special than being crowned as the king?” Kevan raised an eyebrow.

“A different kind of special, then. To show that he is important to his grandfather and to me.”

Dorna clasped a hand to her chest, “That is so sweet of you, Lady Sansa. You are so thoughtful!”

Genna rolled her eyes, “She’s not a bloody porcelain doll, Dorna. She’s a lioness, just you wait and see.”

Sansa blushed but felt a swell of pride at being openly praised by a woman as fierce and candid as Genna Lannister.

To Sansa’s surprise, Tywin entered the room as they were midway through their meal, “I apologize for my tardi—” Noticing Sansa at the table, he stopped momentarily before recovering, “tardiness. I’m glad to see I haven’t held you up.”

Genna snorted, “No one at this table is polite enough to wait for you before digging in, save Dorna, but she’s outnumbered.”

Tywin took the only empty seat, which was next to Sansa, “My lady,” he nodded.

“My lord.”

The mood was much less vibrant after his arrival, but Sansa soon realized it wasn’t his mere presence that dampened their spirits, it was the obvious tension between she and Tywin. Hoping conversation would help relieve the awkwardness, Sansa addressed her betrothed, “How is King Tommen adjusting to his new duties, my lord?”

“As well as can be expected, given his age. He doesn’t have a mind for politics yet, but that will hopefully come in time as he matures.”

“It had better,” Genna raised her eyebrows, “Gods know the realm can’t endure another Robert. Without a sword in his hand or a wench on his lap the man was useless.”

“Thank you, sister, for the very colorful history lesson,” Tywin snorted.

Sansa continued, “I for one think Tommen will be a good king. He has a kind heart, that’s the most important thing. His council can compensate for anything else, so long as they’re chosen wisely. Perhaps the most important lesson you can teach him is the importance of surrounding himself with trustworthy advisors, capable in their respective domains.”

Sansa meant it as a compliment, knowing that Tywin was the best Hand a king could hope for, yet he seemed to infer a different meaning from her words as he bristled at her, “Thank you for the advice, my lady, though, as it happens, I’ve some experience in these matters.”

Four mouths simultaneously stopped chewing as they waited rapt to hear Sansa’s response. She herself was equally stunned at the blatant disrespect Tywin showed her in front of others. She felt this was a pivotal moment in their relationship – would she wilt under his criticism or straighten her spine and give back as good as she got?

Ultimately, she decided on a different path altogether. She giggled, “Of course, my lord. I’m just a silly girl, what could I possibly offer by way of advice to someone as knowledgeable as yourself?” Her smile was sugar sweet as she ate a forkful of yams. She batted her eyelashes and held his gaze. It was a stare-down, no doubt about it, and she refused to yield. Eventually it was Tywin who broke their gaze and resumed eating his dinner. When Sansa met Genna’s eyes across the table, the woman looked proud as could be.

**Tywin**

After dessert, Tywin insisted on escorting Sansa back to the Tower of the Hand along with their respective guards. At her chamber door she was about to bid him goodnight when he pushed past her into her bedchamber. She followed him in but did not speak. After he paced a few moments he finally spoke, “I don’t enjoy being toyed with.”

“Who’s toying with you, my lord?”

“Drop the act, Sansa, your audience is gone. No need to play dumb, or innocent.”

“I was under the impression this is what you wanted in a wife based on your own behavior. Perhaps I’ve misunderstood, you see I’m not very bright…”

Tywin advanced on her, grabbing her by both arms, “I said _enough._ You’ve made your bloody point.”

For a moment she was still, staring at his throat which was eye-level to her. When she slowly lifted her head to meet his eyes, he saw nothing but ice, and when she spoke her words dripped with venom, “Take your hands off of me.”

He dropped his hands and took a step back, but she advanced on him, “If I had made my _point_ , my lord, you would not be in my room scolding me like a child… if I had made my point, your daughter would not be walking around a free woman while she plots her next murder attempt...”

She spoke clearly and authoritatively, and with each step Tywin backed up until he hit her bureau and could go no further.

“I’ve spent the better part of two years being under Joffrey and Cersei’s thumbs. I do not intend to escape the frying pan only to jump into the fire. If our marriage is not to be one of mutual respect, then tell me now. I’d sooner throw myself from the balcony than spend one more day with a man wielding his power over me like my entire existence is for his benefit and nothing more. If what you want is a pretty bird in a cage, repeating whatever you say, then I suggest you find another woman. If you want someone who will be at your side, an equal who can carry on your legacy after you leave this world, then act like it.”

Tywin was awed by her assertiveness. Holding her gaze was excruciating as he wanted nothing more than to bow to her in all her glory. He felt the blood pooling in his groin, and as if hearing his thoughts she cast her eyes down and saw the bulge at the front of his breeches.

_Of all the days I didn’t wear a long doublet!_

She met his eyes again and arched an eyebrow. He didn’t know whether to feel shame or pride, until she grabbed him through his pants and gripped tightly. The sensation was euphoric, and he struggled not to thrust into her hand, as he was fairly certain she would not appreciate it in this moment.

Baring her teeth she spoke, “You want a bird or a wolf, Tywin?”

His voice barely sounded like his own when he spoke, “A wolf.”

Like nothing had happened she released her grip and resumed her normal, courteous tone, “Good, I’m glad we are in agreement, my lord.”

He stood there long enough to allow his arousal to fade before bowing his exit.


	21. Confrontation

**Tywin**

Tywin had purposely delayed the conversation with Cersei. She had been confined to her rooms since the attack on Lady Sansa, but Tywin knew she had to be present for both Joffrey’s funeral and Tommen’s coronation to avoid all manner of rumors spreading. When she was let out of her room, she was heavily guarded. To any onlooker it would appear that Tywin was protecting his daughter in light of the attack on her son.

Several times she tried to get her father’s attention, once even having the audacity to inquire about her cousin Lancel. Out of respect for his brother Kevan, and knowing Lancel had been thoroughly manipulated by Cersei, Tywin had allowed the young man to live. He was serving a one-month sentence in the dungeons of King’s Landing and would be sent back to Casterly Rock at its conclusion. Out of Cersei’s influence, Kevan was certain his son would be no threat to his family. After all, he believed he was protecting its Lord when he acted against Sansa. As extra assurance, Tywin insisted that Lancel be married, preferably to a pretty young wife who would make him forget about Cersei altogether. Kevan agreed, and together they decided on Eleyne Westerling – the younger daughter of Jeyne Westerling, who had died with her husband Robb Stark at the Frey Wedding. The Westerlings had always been loyal to House Lannister, aside from Jeyne’s foolish dalliance with the handsome young wolf. It was time to secure their allegiance once more with a marriage between their houses.

But Tywin had not told any of this to Cersei. He had been ignoring her completely. It was a strategy to gain the upper hand by putting her in a state of unease. Make her spend the better part of a fortnight wondering what would become of her, wondering whether she had lost her father’s favor for good.

But now, on the eve of his wedding, it was time to have the conversation with his only daughter. When he entered her chambers, he was surprised by how unkempt she looked.

“Father!” she exclaimed as she threw herself in his arms. Tywin suffered the hug for but a moment before firmly removing her arms from his waist.

“Cersei. I’ve come to appraise you of the situation.”

“Father, why am I being treated like a prisoner?!”

“You know why, daughter. Do not play dumb.”

She looked at him in shock, apparently not willing to heed his instruction

_Very well then._

“You manipulated your cousin Lancel into trying to murder my betrothed. As I’m sure you’ve gathered by Lancel’s absence and Sansa’s presence, he was thwarted – by Sansa herself and then her loyal guards. He confessed everything immediately – all the lies you told him to convince him that killing Lady Sansa was in the best interest of House Lannister.”

Cersei’s eyes were fiery with rage, “He lied! I had no part in that.”

“Spare me daughter, I’ve no time for this. Lancel hasn’t the brains to concoct such a theory. You on the other hand have proven quite capable of scheming, and you’ve made your hatred of Lady Sansa apparent since the moment she arrived in King’s Landing years ago as your son’s betrothed. Why you hold such animosity toward the girl is beyond me, but it matters not. I’ve come to tell you that it ends _now._ Tomorrow I will wed Sansa, securing the alliance between the North, the West, and the Crown. If you try to interfere you will be dealt with mercilessly. If you, now or in the future, speak or act in any way that threatens Lady Sansa you will be dealt with mercilessly. If you speak against her, you will be dealt with mercilessly. I do not expect you to have any affection for your soon-to-be-goodmother, but to any onlooker it will appear as such. Your performance as Robert Baratheon’s loyal wife was admirable, it’s time to revive your skills and once again play a part. Am I clear?”

“Father, you are making a mistake. The girl can’t be trusted. You will leave the legacy of our great house to her and her mutts – she who has nothing but hatred for everyone who bears the Lannister name!”

“You are the only one she has hatred for – and she has every reason! Ask your brothers, your aunt and uncle… ask any of them if they can find a shred of resentment in the girl, you will get the same answer from all of them.”

“Then she is a practiced liar, which makes her even more dangerous!”

“The only danger to House Lannister is _you…_ you and Joffrey did everything in your power to make enemies and to jeopardize our legacy. Your betrayal started the day you decided not to give Robert Baratheon at least one legitimate heir! Joffrey’s questionable parentage was what started the most recent war, or have you already forgotten? Now Tommen wears the crown but still at least half the realm believes he does not deserve it. I’ve done everything in my power to secure alliances or otherwise eliminate those who would be our enemy, yet at every turn you undermine me.”

Tywin took a moment to regain his composure. Cersei was staring at him as if he’d slapped her.

“I have not the time to argue with you. When the Tarlys leave in a sennight to return home you will go with them. You will be married to Dickon Tarly but make no mistake, Randyll Tarly is your warden, and I believe you know the man is not one so easily manipulated.”

“What?! No! You can’t. I’m a Queen… the daughter of the Great Lion – you would marry me to one of our bannermen’s sons?”

“I would and I will. Your other option is to be sent to Winterfell and wed Roose Bolton’s son Ramsay.”

“A bastard?!”

“The legitimized son of the Warden of the North. Take your pick and let me know now.”

“I choose neither. I will refuse!”

“Need I remind you that it is within a father’s rights to forcibly wed his daughter?”

“I am the Queen Regent; you can’t!”

“There is no requirement for a young king to have a regent. Tommen is surrounded with capable advisors, including myself. The boy has already shown more common sense than either his mother or his brother, and in six months’ time he will wed Margaery Tyrell.”

“He’s only a child.”

“He will be six and ten at that time. I believe you are intimately aware of how capable a man is at that age,” Tywin did not enjoy referring to Cersei’s relationship with her twin brother, but he needed to continually remind her of her many indiscretions – any of which could be punishable by death.

Cersei flew at her father, pounding her fists against his chest, sobbing and yelling indecipherably.

“You shame yourself with this behavior, daughter! You conspired to murder your father’s betrothed – a protected lady of the crown – I could have you tried and executed.”

“Then do it!”

Tywin frowned. He did not wish to see his daughter dead. He hoped that once removed from the capital she could live a comfortable and perhaps even happy life. She was still young and health enough to bare children. Dickon Tarly could give her babes to dote on – legitimate children that would be of a very high station in the Westerlands. But Tywin could not coddle her any longer.

“If that is what you wish… Your choices are Dickon Tarly, Ramsay Bolton, or trial.”

“I choose trial.”

Tywin knew what she was trying, “And who do you believe will be your champion? Need I remind you that Gregor and Sandor Clegane are both loyal to _me_? Your brother, should he be foolish enough to fight for you, is missing his sword hand.”

“Cousin Lancel will fight for me!”

“Cousin Lancel is a prisoner, and the moment his sentence is up he will be immediately shipped back to Casterly Rock. So I ask again, _who_ do you think will fight for you?”

“I will fight for myself then!”

“You think you can best me? Or the Hound? Hells, Tyrion could best you with a sword.”

She threw herself at her father again, fists flailing desperately.

“Enough! Make your choice but know that choosing trial is choosing death. Would you put Tommen and Myrcella through that?”

Finding her efforts futile, her wrists finally stilled, “Tarly.”

“A wise choice.” Without another word Tywin exited the room. He intended to be well-rested for his wedding.


	22. Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Split wedding and bedding into two chapters as it was fairly long otherwise.

**Sandor**

King Tommen arrived at Sansa’s chambers with his full Kingsguard to escort Sansa to the Great Sept of Baelor on the day of her wedding. When she emerged from her room Sandor and every other man was awed by her beauty. She graciously curtsied to Tommen, though the poor boy blushed as if she were the Queen, not he the King.

In a million years Sandor would never had pictured the little bird in such a dress. To those that didn’t know her, they might not realize she was making a statement, but Sandor recognized it for what it was. As he and the other guards fell in behind her and Tommen, he noticed the back of the dress was partially open, and her assortment of scars was on full display – Joffrey’s handiwork. Yet Joffrey now lay in the crypt, and she was alive and well, and about to marry the most powerful man in the realm.

The gold beading on the dress was so magnificent, even a dog like Sandor Clegane could appreciate it. It extended down from the chest and up from the bottom hem as if battling for territory against the black fabric of the dress.

Today was a bittersweet day for him. He would watch the woman of his dreams wed another man, yet he couldn’t help but feel proud of the meek girl who had discovered her claws only after being thrown to the lions. Sandor smirked at the realization that Tywin Lannister may have finally met his match.

They entered the Sept and the guards took their place at the rear as Tommen escorted his soon-to-be-grandmother down the aisle on his left arm. One by one the guests’ eyes fell upon the bride, and row after row gasped in awe as she walked by, head held high, looking more a queen than a lady.

**Sansa**

The Great Lion stood upon the stairs with the Septon. Jaime and Tyrion flanked the aisle at the base of the stairs. Jaime bowed while clearly suppressing a grin. His brother made no secret of his reaction to Sansa’s dress. He beamed at her widely and – if Sansa was correct – with a not so small amount of pride.

Tommen kissed her chastely on both cheeks and Sansa ascended the stairs regally but slowly, as if in no rush at all. When she reached the upper platform, she was finally close enough to take in the sight of her groom. He wore his light armor as was the custom for men of his military accomplishments. It was black with red and gold accents. Each pauldron bore the roaring lion of House Lannister. His sword was sheathed at his left hip. Slung over one arm was the crimson cloak of protection he would soon place over Sansa’s shoulders.

Sansa looked at his face, trying not to reveal how eager she was to see his reaction. What she found in him seemed to be equal parts shock, lust, and – respect? His eyes were roaming over her gown from chest to hem, but when he finally met her eyes, she saw a flash of approval for a fleeting moment.

In unison they turned to face the Septon who began officiating the ceremony, "You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

As was the custom, Sansa turned to the left to face away from Tywin. For several seconds, nothing happened, and she almost turned back to look at him before remembering that he was seeing the back of her dress for the first time. Her heart began pounding – was he angered by her audacity? Did he find it poor taste to reveal so much flesh, and scar-covered flesh at that – before the audience?

Then she felt it – four warm fingertips dusted over her back so lightly she might not have noticed had she not been hyper-aware of every sensation in that prolonged moment. The touch was gentle and several of the ladies below audibly sighed in approval of the loving gesture. His warm handed rested between her shoulder blades but a moment before it left her skin and moved to join its partner in draping the cloak over her shoulders. Sansa turned back to face the Septon. She could not look to Tywin, for fear she would cry.

The rest of the ceremony flew by in a haze. Sansa and Tywin recited their vows, and she could barely feel her feet beneath her as her husband – her _husband_ – guided her down the steps.

They were silent throughout the brief carriage ride back to the Red Keep, both seemingly lost in thought as they looked out the small windows at the smallfolk who’d lined the streets to cheer for them. Sansa marveled at how the people of the city acted so differently toward Tywin than they did toward Joffrey. They weren’t stupid – they noticed that the increase in their quality of life coincided with the Great Lion’s return to the capital. Sansa vainly wished some of their affection was for her. She thought back to the hopes and dreams she had as a girl – of being a queen that was revered by all her people for her grace, beauty, and generosity. The antithesis of Cersei Lannister.

“You look happy, my lady.”

She turned to Tywin. She hadn’t realized she’d been smiling.

“Oh… I was just thinking about how much the people respect you. I was hoping someday I might have some of their respect, as well.”

Tywin snorted, “You think they’re cheering for me?”

“Of course. They know who to thank for the peace they’re enjoying for a change.”

“You need to get out more, my lady. The rumor among the smallfolk is that the Last Wolf has tamed the Great Lion.”

“Hmpf, if only they knew…”

“Knew what?”

“That the Great Lion is untamable,” she answered matter-of-factly.

“As you say, my lady.”

She turned to look at him fully, offering a small smile, “Doesn’t mean I won’t try…”

Tywin did something he rarely did. He chuckled, “I look forward to it, wife.”

_Wife._

_Husband._

…

The wedding feast was held in the Great Hall rather than outside, and Sansa was grateful for that. After Lancel’s attack she felt more exposed out in the open. Knowing that Lannister guards were posted at each entrance eased Sansa’s worry somewhat.

Cersei came to pay her respects to the newlyweds and behaved herself perfectly. She even kissed Sansa’s cheek and wished her every happiness, which only irked Sansa.

When Tywin and Sansa danced, she noticed he held her just a bit closer, and his hand seemed more relaxed on the small of her back. When he led her back to their table, he kept his hand there, and Sansa found the feeling to be both warm and comforting. He was by no means open with his affection, but as they sat and chatted between visits from guests, he often sought her hand, stroking it tenderly with his thumb. It wasn’t until after the main course was served that Tywin leaned in to whisper in Sansa’s ear, “I haven’t yet complimented you on your dress, my lady.”

She put on her best impassive face, “I assumed that meant you didn’t approve, my lord.”

“Quite the opposite; I’ve only been trying to conjure the appropriate words to describe the beauty of both the dress and its wearer.”

Sansa turned to face him, her surprise shamefully evident on her face as Tywin smirked at her reaction.

“And?”

“And I’ve still not found the words.”

She tsked him.

“But the closest I’ve gotten are ‘perfection’, ‘masterpiece’, and…”

“And?” Sansa’s heart was fluttering with anticipation she could not hide.

He leaned even closer, his breath tickling her ear as he spoke, “ _Lioness_.” He annunciated each syllable and punctuated it with a warm kiss on the sensitive skin just beneath her earlobe.

Desire pooled between her legs and she felt her cheeks flush, but Tywin remained close to her ear as he continued, “There shall be no bedding ceremony. It’s barbaric, for one thing, and for another, if any man harms you _or_ this dress, I’d have to remove his head.”

“Perhaps your wife would find such a display rather… _arousing…_ knowing it was done for her honor.”

Her words clearly shocked Tywin, but soon enough his lips curled up into a mischievous smile, “You are a fierce little creature, aren’t you?”

She sipped her wine casually, trying to downplay just how excited she was, “You’ll find out if _you_ harm this dress when you’re taking it off me later.”

Turning his attention back to the festivities, he took a sip of wine and parodied his own words from their carriage ride earlier that day, “Either way, I look forward to it, wife.”

**Tywin**

Tywin could not have gotten out of the hall fast enough. If he’d had his way, he’d have slung his bride over his shoulder and carried her to his bedchamber before the cake was served.

As it was, he had to endure another two hours of idle chatter with the guests. He let Sansa do most of the talking, she was much better at reciting empty courtesies, as much as they were beneath her intellect. He only truly paid attention when some Lord or Knight stared too long at his bride. It was both maddening and alluring. At his age, he felt insecure when a handsome young man was vying for Sansa’s attention, yet at the same time, the fact that so many men would be thinking of _his wife_ tonight when they fucked their plain wives, wenches, or hands made Tywin feel powerful in a thrilling way. He sat back and found odd fantasies invading his mind – images of him claiming Sansa hard and fast right on this very table – bringing her to an ecstasy that would make every woman envious of her while every man was envious of the Great Lion and his luck at securing the most beautiful woman in the realm. 

Tywin snapped back to the present when Sansa took his hand tentatively. Looking around he noticed how intoxicated most of the guests were. It signaled that the festivities had gone on more than long enough. He rose, helping her to do the same.

“Shall we retire, my lady?”

“I would like that, my lord.”

They exited quietly, ignoring the few drunk voices that called for a bedding. Despite his earlier fantasy, no one would see his bride naked tonight except Tywin himself.


	23. Bedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately after events of ch 22

**Tywin**

Tywin had already instructed Ser Addam the previous night on the new guard posts. Sansa’s personal guards would remain outside her bedchamber only when she spent her nights there – which Tywin hoped would be infrequent. On nights she was with Tywin in his quarters they would instead be stationed at the stairway on the floor that contained nothing but the Hand’s apartments, which is where Ser Addam and Tywin’s other personal guards stood. Tywin was more than capable of protecting his wife and had no desire for any man to stand outside his door listening to his marital encounters.

Once in Tywin’s bedchamber he poured each of them a glass of Arbor gold. Despite their earlier flirtations Tywin suddenly felt uncomfortable. Was she expecting their bedding to begin immediately, or would she prefer to talk first, ease into things more gradually?

A practical man, he decided on a compromise. He sat in one of the cushioned chairs in front of the hearth. He patted his leg, and Sansa accepted the invitation, sitting herself on his leg primly. He would let her set the pace – she could choose to talk or to deepen their physical contact. It seemed for the moment she chose neither. She stared into the flames transfixed, and Tywin found himself equally transfixed by the colors that flashed in her eyes and hair in the firelight. She looked like a goddess – the only evidence that she was a mere mortal were the scars she bore. Being reminded of what she had endured made Tywin both sad and proud.

While looking at the fire he reached up a hand to idly stroke her back. He was pleased when she leaned into his hand slightly and closed her eyes. Having her consent, he placed his other hand on her thigh just above her knee. He continued trailing the other hand lower on her back and around to her side. His large hand made her narrow waist look even smaller. As he stroked his hand from her ribs down to her hip, he found the hidden buttons of her dress. It was like discovering a buried treasure. With much care he began unbuttoning them – each one an act of worship as Sansa looked down at him with a mixture of apprehension and desire.

With the side of the dress open Tywin could see that she wore no slip or bodice. Her body would be bare for him but for her smallclothes once he pushed the dress off her shoulders. Wanting to prolong the anticipation, his hands left her dress to begin plucking out the many pins that held her hair up and off her shoulders. With each pin removed a lock of lustrous copper hair fell loose. He knew her hair to be long, but it was only in this moment that he realized it extended all the way down to the small of her back, cascading in layers that called to mind the waves that crashed at the shoreline of Casterly Rock. He ran his hands through it, marveling at how soft it was.

As he continued to run his right hand through the copper silk, Sansa gently flipped over his left hand which had returned to rest gently on her thigh. Her deft fingers unlaced his vambrace. Turning herself in his lap she took his right hand and repeated the process, then set to work on the gold buckles at his sides that held his leather plackart in place, and those that affixed his pauldrons to his breastplate. He sat forward so she could pull it over his head and as she did, she rose to stand between his knees. He sat in only his breeches, leather boots, and tunic, eye-level with her chest.

His hands moved in slow motion, still uncertain she was ready to be completely bared to him, but her hands never stopped him, and her eyes never left him. She watched him as he gently pulled the gown down from her shoulders, as if unwrapping a most cherished gift. He looked only at the gown as he pushed it down her torso, shimmied it over her hips, and let it drop to the ground. Only then did he allow himself to take in the visage before him, starting from the bottom and working his way up.

She was literally breathtaking – the pinnacle of feminine beauty. Long legs that were slim but not overly muscular extended up to rounded hips perfect for bringing children into the world. They tapered into a narrow waist, where faint lines of muscle on either side of her navel guided his eye up to the valley between two perfectly formed breasts – full enough to prove her womanhood, but small enough that they retained their round shape even without the structure of a bodice to support them. They were accentuated by small pink nipples. As much as his eyes wanted to linger there, he forced them to continue up to her sharp collarbones from which her swanlike neck extended to meet the face that looked both familiar and novel at this moment.

With as much restraint as he could muster, he gingerly placed his hands on her hips, his thumbs resting over the front of each hip bone. He allowed his hands to follow the path his eyes had just traversed, ghosting his hands ever so lightly up her sides. At her breasts he allowed each thumb to stroke the sensitive skin where each mound met her ribs. Her skin and nipples immediately prickled in response to the tickling sensation. He rose from his chair without stopping his journey. She inhaled sharply as his thumbs grazed over her nipples. From there he moved to her upper arms, stroking gently before continuing his ascent, which ended when his hands rested on her neck, thumbs stroking first her jawline, then pulling her bottom lip gently and releasing it, marveling at the springiness of the plump young flesh.

He lowered his mouth to hers, claiming that same plump lower lip between both of his. She didn’t play the shy maid even though he could tell her nervousness by the light trembling of her hands and rapidity of her pulse. She returned the kiss, capturing his upper lip as he was capturing her lower.

They explored each other’s lips this way for at least a minute before his tongue sought entry into her warm mouth. She welcomed it and met it with her own, at first timidly before she gained confidence to explore his mouth as he explored hers. He briefly wondered if she’d ever kissed been kissed like this before then cursed himself for allowing the unpleasant thoughts of her previous _encounters_ into his mind. Needing to ground himself to the present moment, he lowered his hands to her waist, stroking lightly over her womanly curves. Feeling her skin once again prickly under his touch made him feel proud that he could still elicit such a response from a young woman.

Her hands, which had been simply resting on his shoulders, grew bolder. She kneaded gently into the muscular flesh there and in his upper arms, exploring his masculinity as he explored her femininity. When her arms snaked around his neck to bring him closer in their embrace, he became aware that she was fully nude but for her dainty smallclothes, but he was fully dressed. He considered removing some of his clothing but then her lips captured and suckled his tongue for a brief moment, chasing all restraint and logical thought from his mind.

He dropped his lips to her jaw then neck, kissing and nipping fervently at the soft white skin below her earlobe, blazing a trail of wet kisses down to her collarbone. He licked and kissed at the place where her neck met her shoulder and was rewarded with the sound of her involuntary mewling, which further ignited his lust. Careful to avoid trampling her gown he guided her backwards toward the bed, one hand now tangled in her hair while the other gripped firmly to her waist. When the back of her upper thighs bumped into his mattress, he pulled down her smallclothes before she could protest. When he lowered himself to kneel before her, she looked at him curiously until he distracted her by resuming his wet kisses, now traversing her flat belly until he nuzzled in the red curls at the juncture of her legs. He inhaled deeply, and his already erect member grew painfully hard as her scent awoke something primal in him. He felt every bit the lion, and the beautiful creature before him his mate.

Her legs were long enough that her toes could still touch the floor even as her bottom leaned against the edge of the tall bed. With a firm grip he parted her thighs just enough to lick his tongue up her slit. She moaned in delight, leaning back on her hands and submitting herself to her husband’s whims. Kneeling before her he worshipped her body the best way he knew how – by lavishing her woman’s place with his tongue and lips. She was wet from the start but became drenched the more he lapped at her. After some time she laid back, bringing her feet up to the mattress. Tywin leaned back to enjoy the sight of her glistening cunt on full display in this new position. She allowed him his reverie for but a moment before using a foot to pull him back to her center. He chuckled at her voracity, “As my lady commands,” he spoke into her thigh before kissing it and returning to his duty.

He resumed his task in earnest, both hands gripping her hips to hold her in place as she tried to buck against him.

_Gods is she beautiful._

If Tywin Lannister were to fall over dead at this very moment his only regret would not be bringing his wife to completion first. With that odd motivation in his mind he quickened his pace, sucking vigorously on her nub. Her hands reached for his head, desperately trying to pull him closer even though the only way he could be any closer would be by being inside her, which he planned to be very soon.

Her legs were trembling, but he remained focused on his efforts even as she panted and cried from the overwhelming pleasure, “Tywin… Gods, Tywin, please don’t… don’t stop… don’t, don’t, don’t… oh _GODS_!!!”

She screamed her release as he continued to suck her mercilessly. He didn’t stop until she weakly tried pushing his head away from her over-sensitized loins. He stroked her thighs but even that was too much for her, as her legs jerked in response.

Once recovered she sat up. Tywin was now standing before her and she looked up at him with even more lust than she had before her peak, if that was possible. She nodded at his tunic and gave a firm command, “Off.” While he lifted his shirt over his head, she didn’t waste any time in unlacing his breeches, almost forceful in her frenzy as she yanked both pants and smallclothes down in one greedy motion.

Tywin knew he was in excellent shape, though his skin bore the inevitable signs of age. But if Sansa was disappointed by any part of his anatomy, she did not show it. She eyed his cock hungrily and grasped it firmly, her thumb spreading the moisture at his tip, eliciting an involuntary moan from the Great Lion. Her other hand stroked the ridges of his abdominal muscles then traveled down to grip the taut muscle on the front of his thigh.

His cock still in her hand she looked up at him, eyes dark with want. “Mine,” she said firmly.

Trying to hide the excitement her possessiveness inspired he replied simply, “Yours.”

Satisfied with his response she lowered her lips to his cock, teasing the tip with her tongue as he buried both hands in her fiery mane. He let her have her fun, teasing him for several minutes before finally, blessedly, she took him in her mouth. He let out a throaty sigh at the relief it brought. She could take almost all of him, but what wouldn’t fit she kept firmly encircled by her hand.

Tywin was grateful for his own foresight; without pleasuring himself this morning he would surely have spent himself within seconds of being in her soft wet mouth. Hells, he may have lost it from the thrill of bringing her to her peak minutes ago. As it was, he did not want this part of their evening to go on too long. He intended to fuck her thoroughly and needed to withhold some vigor for that. He pulled her head away, taking a moment to appreciate her red and swollen lips. Lifting her by her waist her moved her up the bed, following only a second behind her. He kneeled between her legs and lowered his mouth to hers, the tastes of their sex meeting where their mouths joined just as it soon would where their bodies joined. In this position, the tip of his member rested within her folds, and she squirmed in an attempt to rub herself against him.

“Impatient little thing, aren’t you? Perhaps this is what you deserve after teasing my cock with your tongue.”

“Are you complaining?”

“Not even close,” he spoke between kisses, “You can tease my cock all day long as long as I get to look forward to _this_ ,” he thrust himself into her, stealing her breath, “come nightfall.”

He supported himself on his left forearm while his right hand squeezed the flesh at her thigh and hip.

She was blissfully tight as he rocked gently against her, each sway burying his cock deeper and deeper into her warmth until her flesh yielded to him and was fully sheathed. He held still for a few moments, languidly peppering her neck and chest with kisses. He felt her inner muscles tighten around his shaft as she no doubt tried to create friction for herself, “Tywin… please.”

It had been thirty years since he actively cared whether his bedmate found pleasure, but the skills were not lost to the passage of time. He leaned back to sit on his heels, pulling her legs up to rest over his hips. He withdrew nearly all the way until his thick head was all that remained inside her. He angled it upward against that special hidden spot that he imagined most men didn’t even know existed. He focused all his attention on it, using short and fast strokes to target it with what he knew was impeccable precision when she began moaning and bearing down on him.

“Tywin, oh Gods… what?... oh Gods, please… please don’t stop,” she was writhing beneath him, skin glistening with the evidence of her ecstasy. For every dozen or so short thrusts he plunged one deeply into her, and each time she cried out at the sudden invasion, then resumed her frantic panting in time with his rapid thrusts.

He was so solely focused on her body that he ignored his own pleasure. He felt in that moment that his entire existence was to bring this woman joy. He felt like a slave to her even as he was the one in control in this moment and she was putty in his hands.

Her head flopped from side to side on the bed as if searching for the perfect position in which to find her release. Her panting signaled she was close just as she reached without looking and grasped his hands which were resting on her thighs. Both their hands interlocked while their bodies were joined. It was an entirely new level of closeness for the man who’d shut himself off from almost all human affection for decades. It was powerful and made his heart ache and swell.

A moment later she clamped down hard and came undone, sobbing her release as Tywin imagined years’ worth of pent-up emotion came rushing to the surface. The rhythmic contractions of her cunt brought his own pleasure to the forefront and only a few thrusts later he was pouring himself deep within her. His thoughts mirrored hers, as a lifetime’s worth of regrets and sorrows were expelled along with his seed. Images of his late wife flashed before him, but in place of the guilt that usually accompanied them there was only peace and forgiveness. He cursed himself for denying himself of this type of joy for so long, before an oddly pacifying thought struck him as if sent from the Father himself – he couldn’t have taken another wife, because he was waiting for this one. He waited patiently for thirty years without even realizing it.

A dam of realization burst, and Tywin allowed the tide to wash over him. He had convinced himself this would be a marriage of political motives, but he knew now that it was alright if there was also caring and affection. He felt a small crack form in his chest and would willingly let this little she-wolf burrow in and make her home there. At that very moment she turned and pressed her tear-stricken face against his chest. He wrapped his long arms around her and kissed the crown of her head.

“I’m sorry, Tywin… I just… I never knew it could be like that.”

It took him a moment to realize she was apologizing for her tears. He stroked her back, “There is nothing to be sorry for, my dear.”

Her innocence showed as she peered into his eyes, “Is that how it is for every couple?”

He chuckled, “I wouldn’t know, but I suspect only for the lucky ones.”

She nodded and buried her face back into his chest, “Are you satisfied, my lord?”

His heart swelled again that she’d even think to ask him that. The past hour was the best he’d felt in years, “Completely, wife.”

**Sansa**

As her euphoria faded a flurry of thoughts and questions invaded Sansa’s sleepy mind. She tried to rationalize everything she knew about Tywin Lannister – the Hand of the King, the Warden of the West, the Lord of Casterly Rock – with the man who lay alseep beside her now, breathing steadily even as his arms continued to hold her protectively.

At best, she had hoped that their coupling would be tolerable, that she wouldn’t descend into memories of her past traumas as her lord husband sought his pleasure. But Tywin set her at ease the moment they entered his bedchamber and guided her through a torrent of pleasure so intense she forgot every pain her body had ever suffered, along with her own name.

Despite the lingering remnants of her ecstasy she worried about what tomorrow would bring. Would they return to their former roles, or would she wake to a slightly softer version of the Great Lion? She by no means wanted a kitten, but the idea that he might be just a bit gentler, if only toward her, was a prospect she welcomed.

Among all her jumbled thoughts there was a slight feeling of guilt over her brief but passionate encounter with Sandor. It felt like a betrayal of Tywin, even though they weren’t formally promised to one another at that time. Part of her wanted to confess everything to Tywin, though she knew doing so would only bring the man’s wrath down upon her loyal protector and friend – that she could not risk. Instead she made a silent promise to be faithful to Tywin from this point forward, so long as he remained faithful to her. Content with this compromise she drifted to sleep and didn’t awaken the sun was peeking through the windows.


	24. Realization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally going to earn one of the tags in this chapter.

**Sansa**

Sansa woke the morning after her wedding to find herself alone in Tywin’s bedchamber – or was it her bedchamber now, too? She was uncertain of his expectation and feared that assuming the wrong thing might anger him. She decided that she would ask him his wishes to leave no room for mistake.

She knew by the light in the window that it was well past dawn – it might even be after nine o’clock. Would Tywin think her lazy for sleeping in? She noticed a tray of pastries and fruit sat at a side table along with a note. She smiled as she read the words written in the formal handwriting she knew to belong to the man who was now her husband.

_My lady,_

_I apologize for departing your company this morning. If I had my way, I’d spend all day in bed with you, but there are pressing matters to attend to. Please relax – no need to join me in my solar as my business should be complete by midday. I shall have lunch brought to our chambers._

_Tywin_

The brief note offered so much reassurance. He didn’t leave because he was dissatisfied with her, nor would he think her lazy for staying in bed so late. Further, he referred to this as _their_ chambers – not his chambers – so perhaps he did expect them to share the room and bed every night.

Sansa enjoyed the tray of confections while awaiting her maids. After helping her bathe and dress they left, and she felt idle. She wanted to go to Tywin, but his letter instructed her not to and she did not want to seem needy. She could go for a walk in the gardens, but it was already nearing midday and she did not want to miss Tywin’s return.

She was perusing the books on his massive bookshelf when one of the guards announced that Cersei Lannister was there to see her. Nausea descended on her, but she bid Cersei enter, knowing the guard would not be out of ear shot.

Cersei entered in a rather joyous mood which Sansa found more unnerving than her usual bitterness.

“Good morning, my lady,” Cersei beamed, “I trust you slept well.”

Sansa tried to contain her surprise but clearly failed as Cersei chuckled warmly, “I know you’re not expecting me, nor do you have reason to be pleased by my visit, but I thought it was past time we reconciled our differences.”

“Differences?” Sansa arched a brow, “As in you trying to have me murdered?”

Cersei showed no shame but spoke of her remorse, “Yes, well… I was not in the right state of mind. Truthfully, you know we have never been friends – our families have been at war for too long – I suppose in my grief I was looking for a target of my anger, and I chose wrongly. I hope you never know the pain of losing a child, but if you do you will no doubt understand it is a deep pain that can drive a mother to extreme thoughts and actions.”

Sansa considered her words and wondered if Cersei intended them as a veiled threat – a threat against a future child of Sansa’s who would take Jaime’s place as heir of Casterly Rock.

“I do not doubt your words, and I can only imagine the pain of losing a child, though it seems to me your animosity toward me was in place long before Joffrey’s death. You can blame it on the war between our families, but your father and brothers share none of your hatred toward me…”

“Little dove, they are men. Men are won over by a pretty face.”

“That’s what you think? That Tywin, Jaime, and Tyrion, only accept me because of my appearance?”

“Tyrion is drawn toward pretty things like a moth to a flame and… well, I’ve gotten off track. I came to set aside our differences and that is what I intend to do. I wanted to offer my congratulations on your wedding and wish you every happiness in your marriage.”

Sansa did not believe a word Cersei said, but wanted to see this through – to find out Cersei’s true motive, “Thank you, my lady.”

Cersei nodded graciously, “And I must say, despite the age difference, you make a lovely couple. Even if it would not have been either of your choice, it looks as though you’re both willing to make the best of the situation. I commend you for that.”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t have chosen your father, or that he wouldn’t have chosen me?”

“We don’t need to play games, little dove. I’m sure you would have preferred Ser Jaime – so handsome and closer to your age, and of course my father would rather have seen you married to Jaime. I hope you don’t take it personally. My brother is quite opposed to the whole concept of a marriage and a lordship. He is stubborn,” Cersei shook her head as if admonishing Jaime.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Cersei rolled her eyes, “I told you, you don’t have to pretend. I won’t say anything to anyone, including my father. Besides, he isn’t stupid, he knows you’d prefer to have married the Young Lion.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes, “Ser Jaime and I had no interest in marrying. Frankly I don’t know what you’re referring to, but I believe you are misinformed.”

“Oh dear, I think I’ve said too much…”

Sansa knew she was playing right into Cersei’s hand, but she couldn’t stop her own curiosity, “Was there a plan to marry me to Ser Jaime, if I declined to marry Lord Tywin?”

Cersei grimaced but proceeded, just as Sansa knew she would, “The other way around… The plan was for you to marry Ser Jaime, only he refused the match. My father never wanted to remarry. I know it’s hard to see but he is still deeply in love with my late mother, Lady Joanna. But he is a practical man and knows that House Lannister needs heirs.”

Once again Sansa was unable to contain her shock. Cersei capitalized, “Oh little dove, that doesn’t mean he won’t treat you well! You’re Lady Lannister now! He will shower you in all the gifts your little heart desires. Gold and dresses, anything you ask for will be yours. He is a very generous man to those who share his name. You will give him heirs, so he will give you everything!”

Sansa’s mind was spinning. Had she imagined all the respect and subtle affection that Tywin showed her? She thought he _wanted_ to marry her, that he _chose_ her, but had he only married her because Ser Jaime refused?

And what about last night? He was so focused on her pleasure, but was it only because he wanted her to enjoy the _act_ so that she would want to do it often and give him heirs? Will he cast her aside once he gets a son or two from her?

Sansa realized Cersei was speaking again, “You look pale, little dove.” A knowing smirk painted Cersei’s face, “Perhaps you’re tired from your wedding night. It’s hardly appropriate for me to know, but wenches and whores do tend to brag, and Lord Tywin’s _abilities_ are legendary…”

Sansa wanted to hit something. She wanted to hit Cersei. She wanted to hit Tywin. She wanted to curl up under the bed sheets and disappear. But she would not give Cersei any more satisfaction. She steeled herself and returned the smile, “Then I am a lucky woman indeed to have made a match with such a generous and capable husband. I appreciate you coming here, _good daughter_ , I too think it’s best we put the past behind us. We’re family now, after all.”

Cersei was only mildly put off by Sansa’s pleasantness – she was smart enough to know the damage had been done.

**Tywin**

Even dealing with the simpleton that was Mace Tyrell could not dampen Tywin’s spirits. He chastised himself for feeling so giddy, but the fact was he had much to be thankful for today. In the past moon he had eliminated Joffrey and Baelish – two people who threatened the stability of the realm – and secured himself a bride who exceeded even his impossibly high standards. Sansa would not just give him the North – she would help ensure the dynasty of his house. She was intelligent, graceful, and well-liked. She would earn the respect of the people in the Crownlands and Westerlands given enough time and liberties.

Listening to Mace Tyrell ramble on for over an hour gave Tywin plenty of time to think about the future. He would give Sansa more responsibilities – as much as she was willing to take on. He would present her several options and let her choose that which most appealed to her. Knowing she had a kind heart he expected she would choose to oversee the orphanages of the capital, or perhaps the poorhouses. She had a head for numbers, she might enjoy working with Tyrion – the new Master of Coin – for a few hours each week.

It seemed the possibilities were endless, and Tywin felt a swell of pride at knowing his wife’s potential, even if she herself would doubt it.

Of course, he didn’t want her to feel like an employee. As Lady Lannister now she should spend time in the gardens entertaining the ladies of court. He saw in the way she questioned Lancel that she knew how to get information from a person without him or her realizing what was being revealed. He’d have to find a subtle way to plant the seed in Sansa’s mind that garden parties and other social events were a good opportunity to find out about the health and politics of the realm. She would not enjoy feeling like a spy, but if she understood how valuable such information could be, he thought she would take on the task admirably.

Though Tywin truly did spend much of the morning thinking on his wife’s business and political potential, not all his thoughts were so pure. He was half hard thinking of the way she had writhed beneath him when he pleasured her first with his tongue then with his cock, or the fierceness in her eyes when she grabbed his cock and claimed it for herself. She likely had no idea that she was just the type of mate Tywin always wanted. Not docile and shy in the bedroom, but willing to take everything her husband offered on a silver platter. At some point in his first marriage, he realized his preferences in the bedroom were quite different than in other facets of his life. In the throne room, the small council room, his solar, the battlefield – virtually everywhere _but_ the bedroom, he needed to be in charge. It pleased him to know that his commands – even those as subtle as a nod, an eyebrow quirk or a curl of his lip – were followed unquestioningly. All those around him existed to serve him and enact his will. It made him feel powerful and revered.

Yet sometime during his second year of marriage to Joanna he realized how erotic it was to have his wife be in control. First, he learned to spot the subtle clues of her body – gooseflesh, a quiet moan, a jerk of a thigh, curling of toes – he thought of them as commands and he was happy to obey. As she grew even bolder, she would voice her wants and each time Tywin’s cock swelled just a bit more. But Joanna was at her core a timid woman, and her stating her wishes was always more of a request than a command.

Many years later Tywin realized the full extent of his desires when a particular dark-skinned foreign whore was brought to him. Most whores leaned toward playing the shy maiden, as that was what most men craved. But this particular woman came into Tywin’s tent on the eve of battle and literally grabbed him by the cock. She untied his breeches greedily and mounted him in a chair, taking her pleasure seemingly with no regard for his. She peaked, and he could tell by the quivering of her cunt that it was not an act. She climbed off him and bent over a table, proudly lifting her hips to display her swollen loins to him, “fuck me lion,” she ordered, and he didn’t even consider disobeying. He came undone shamefully quick, so aroused was he. As he dropped back into his chair, fully spent, the woman straightened her skirts then patted him on the cheek a bit more roughly than a lover would, “good lion,” she said – and then was gone.

As perfect as it had been Tywin recognized the risk of seeing the woman again. It would not do to have rumors circulate that the feared Lannister Lion let whores lead him around by the cock. It was the one and only time in his life that he had such an encounter, but it was seared into his mind. Not that he took whores often, but the rest of them blurred into his brain. Only she stood out in his memory. 

Returning his attention to the present he realized Mace Tyrell was asking him a question – and it was about Sansa in a sense, “Has your marriage changed your plans for the North, my lord?”

Tywin bristled. He’d been married not a full day and should be in bed with his wife right now, but instead he was listening to Mace drone on and on.

He gave a terse answer, “I’ve yet to make any decisions. For now, Roose Bolton remains Warden.”

Mace nodded and soon enough had bowed his exit. Tywin only now realized it was well past lunch time. He ordered a servant to bring lunch to his bedchamber where hopefully Sansa was still waiting for him. He spent another twenty minutes finishing up the letters he needed to write then went to find his wife.

Tywin entered their bedchamber just as the servants were leaving. He saw they’d brought up a full spread just as he’d ordered – sandwiches, roasted vegetables, cut fruit, cheese, and wine. But his wife was nowhere to be seen.

“Sansa,” he called. There was no response. He almost went back out to ask the guards where his wife had gone when he noticed a flash of red on the balcony. He found her there looking over the city. Sliding open the door she did not turn to face him, but he could immediately detect her tension.

“Are you unwell, wife?”

Still no response. He turned her to face him and found her eyes so full of emotions he could hardly tell which one dominated. Hurt? Fear? Anger?

Tywin’s joy from moments ago dissolved, “Has something happened?”

It took her long seconds to respond, seemingly choosing her words and attempting to temper her emotions, “I was to marry Ser Jaime?”

Tywin swallowed. He had not expected those words.

“Who told you that?”

“Answer the question.”

Tywin sighed, “It was a consideration.”

“Don’t lie to me!” she entered the room, seething with rage, “It wasn’t a consideration, it wasn’t an afterthought – it was your first choice – you only married me because Jaime refused…”

“Who told you this?”

She shook her head, “Is it the truth?”

Tywin pinched the bridge of his nose. He did not want to lie to her, but the truth would certainly sound worse than how it actually transpired.

“He is my heir. It was my duty to give him the opportunity to claim his birthright of Casterly Rock.”

“And me?”

Tywin sighed dejectedly, “And you.”

“So you used me to try to sweeten the deal? You thought giving him a pretty young bride with a claim to the Northern Kingdom would be enough to make him give up his white cloak and take his lordship?”

“No! It was not like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

How could he explain that the only reason he even brought Jaime into the mix was to get Cersei to go along with Tywin’s plan of marrying Sansa himself – not that it worked…

He avoided her question, “Why is this bothering you so?”

She blanched at his question and took time to formulate a response, “I don’t like being used.”

He knew there was more to it than that. He narrowed his eyes at her, “With all due respect, _wife_ , all highborn ladies are _used_ – you know this. You are raised to be vessels to carry heirs, to help your lord husbands run their castles, to secure alliances for your families, to end wars…”

“I know that! But you… I thought…” she turned away from him.

“What did you think?” he reached for her arm, but she pulled away.

“It doesn’t matter, I was wrong, and I have naught but my own naivety to blame.”

She sat in a chair and looked utterly defeated. Tywin didn’t know what to do. He was not accustomed to offering comfort and reassurance. He knew revealing his feelings would give her both, but was he willing to relinquish that control? To empower her by letting her know just how much he wanted her?

He knelt before her. He’d give her the truth, just not all of it, “Sansa, I needed to give Jaime the opportunity to fulfill what should have been his destiny, but that does not mean I wanted him to do it. I was hoping he would refuse, and he did.”

“And if he had accepted?”

This was the question he was fearing, but he would not lie to her, “Then you’d marry him.”

She looked out toward the balcony and huffed, “And if _I’d_ refused?”

Tywin sighed, “Then you’d have been forced to marry him.”

She shook her head and snorted. Her eyes became unfocused and he recognized the impassive mask she wore the first time she was in his solar, and many times since then until their relationship began to blossom, “I must commend you, my lord,” she spoke flatly, “Having witnessed your powers of deception first-hand, they’re even more effective than described. I can see why you’ve bested every enemy, why you’ve never been on the losing side of a war…”

“Sansa – I did not deceive you!”

“Oh no? I must be forgetting the conversation in which you told me I was to marry Ser Jaime. And I must be imagining the conversation when you said you would marry me only if and when you became worthy. I was clearly dreaming up some fairy tale, for really what you said was that you’d only marry me after your son refused – you’d only marry me to claim the North, to use me to carry your heirs. You want my womb not my heart or my mind.”

“That is NOT true,” Tywin felt his hackles rise, “I had ample opportunity to take a wife over the years. You think women don’t throw themselves at the richest man in the—”

She laughed, a bitter sound, “Oh, I heard about that as well. Your many _conquests_ – how you can make even a tavern wench feel like a goddess. I’m sorry to learn that our wedding night was just another example of your deception.”

“What in the Seven are you talking about? My _conquests?_ Who did you hear this from?”

“So you don’t take whores? Wenches?”

“Of course I do, I’m a man, but—”

“Not _all_ men take whores.”

“Name me one man who doesn’t take whores!”

“Your son! Ser Jaime.”

Tywin was taken aback; he wanted to ask how she knew this fact, but Tywin was aware that Jaime’s avoidance of whores was well-known and much gossiped about. It had contributed to the rumors about his and Cersei’s relationship over the years and maddened Tywin to no end that he had one son ruining his reputation with frequent whoring while the other ruined his reputation by _never_ whoring. It was but one of the ways he begrudgingly wished he could fuse his two sons together into some happy medium. Tyrion’s dutiful nature with Jaime’s courage; Tyrion’s mind for politics with Jaime’s mind for battle. Tyrion’s hatred toward his sister with Jaime’s unnatural love for his sister.

But suddenly a different thought consumed Tywin… suddenly Sansa’s over-reaction to learning about the possibility of her marrying Jaime made sense. She wasn’t mad because she’d been used; she was hurt because she could have had the Young Lion and instead had to settle for the Old Lion. She wasn’t even given a chance to woo Ser Jaime because she didn’t know he was an option.

Tywin rose and straightened his jerkin, “I see. You’re angry because Ser Jaime rejected you. You’re angry because you didn’t get the handsome young knight. Why didn’t you just say so?”

Her eyes went wide as she stood and next thing he knew she slapped him hard across his left cheek with a force he’d not have expected from someone so slight. He was momentarily stunned and didn’t see the next slap coming, but he’d not be caught off guard again. He caught her wrist the third time, then grabbed her left hand as well.

“Let me go you- you- you _monster_!” Tears filled her eyes, and Tywin recognized the dam bursting as it had after she processed Joffrey’s death, “You made me think you cared! That you respected me, that you wanted me! You’re even worse than Cersei and Joffrey – they took pride in their torment of me – I knew where I stood with them, but you – you… it was all a _lie_. You manipulated me to get what you wanted!”

At the hurt in her voice he knew he’d been mistaken moments ago with his accusation. He had no words to defend himself, none that he was willing to share just yet, so he did the only thing he could think of – he kissed her. In one fluid motion he dropped her wrists and grasped her face, pulling her hard against him. Her little hands pushed and beat at his chest, but he did not relent. He took the abuse. He would kiss her until she knew how he felt, until every emotion he had for her poured out of him through his lips. After struggling for the better part of a minute her fists stopped hammering against him and instead clutched at his jerkin as her mouth finally opened to him. He wrapped one arm around her waist and the other cradled her neck, pulling her head back so he could ascend on her lips and neck like a man starved and she a juicy peach.

They yanked and pulled at the other’s clothing until they stood naked in each other’s arms. Tywin was surprised when Sansa pushed down his shoulders until he was kneeling before her. Taking a handful of his hair she pulled his face to her juncture, leaning back against the table that held their untouched meal. He immediately set to work, lapping and nipping at her furiously as he held her fleshy thighs firmly in each hand. She came apart for him quickly, and he stared up at her like a dog waiting for his reward.

When he moved to stand, she pushed him back down and joined him on the ground, immediately sinking onto his cock and riding him violently. He was powerless underneath her, watching her use his cock to chase her pleasure. He kissed and licked at her perfect teats, feeling ready to burst at any moment. As if sensing he was close, she looked down at him, teeth gritted, “Don’t you dare come.” Her words meant to intimidate him, but they only ignited his arousal. He was painfully swollen inside her tight sheath, but he would not disobey her. Moments later she clamped down and cried out her second peak before stilling atop him. He dared not move, not until she had come down from her high, but when she did, she just stood up. He tried to rise with her, but she looked down at him with a snarl, “I didn’t say you could move.”

He blinked at her in shock and excitement. What did she have in mind for him? Would she make him use his mouth on her again while he was still kneeling? His eyes followed her as she walked over to the bed and retrieved her robe. Tying it at the waist she returned to the table. He was thoroughly confused and painfully erect. As if nothing was out of the ordinary, she sat at the table and began eating her lunch. Tywin was at a loss. He moved to rise again but stilled when she shot him a menacing look.

She popped a few grapes in her mouth, chewing lazily before sipping some wine. Next she ate a plump strawberry, and it was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen – though whether she was intentionally teasing him, or he only imagined it due to his aroused state, he knew not.

Finally working up the courage to speak he addressed her meekly, “My lady—” but once again she silenced him with a single look.

“I didn’t say you could speak, either.”

Her words sent a jolt straight to his cock. She watched it twitch before meeting his eyes. He swore he saw the corner of her mouth curl up but perhaps he imagined that, too. She was still facing him as she untied the robe, letting it part open just enough for him to see the inside of her round breasts. She leaned back in the chair and plucked another strawberry out of the bowl. She trailed it down the center of her body, and Tywin’s eyes followed it, rapt. Spreading her legs so she was on full display she teased her nub with the strawberry before dipping it into her juices. Tywin let out an involuntary whimper as she brought the strawberry up to his mouth, dragging it across his lips before ordering him to take a bite. The sweetness of the fruit mixed with her natural essence combined to be the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten. His balls were so tight he couldn’t take another minute of the torture, “Please, Sansa…” he begged.

She nibbled on some cheese, looking back at him innocently, “Please what?”

“Please let me fuck you.”

She sipped her wine lazily, “I’m afraid that would only lead you to believe that lying to me is acceptable.”

“I swear I’ll never lie to you; I’ll never keep anything from you that has to do with you,” he knew he was groveling and wanted to hate himself for it but his need for release was overpowering any sense of pride he still had as he kneeled completely naked in front of the woman who’d gone from his ward to his betrothed to his wife to his master in a matter of a few months.

“You seem to forget you are my lord husband now. You can take even that which is not being offered.”

He looked at her in confusion – is that what she wanted? He never wanted to force himself on her, it would give him no joy. She quirked an eyebrow and seemed to read his thoughts, “You don’t enjoy that, do you? You don’t enjoy taking a woman that way, even your wife. You’d best remember that next time you think to lie to me. If I ever find you’ve lied to me, I’ll never lay with you willingly again.”

The idea truly invoked fear in him. He knew it was not an idle threat. He nodded.

“As for the present moment, if you want to fuck me, I’ll let you earn it.”

His eyes glanced down at her cunt, but she shook her head, “No, not that way. You can earn it with your words, with the truth and only the truth. And if I even think you’re lying, well… you know…”

“Fuck, Sansa.”

She shrugged and rose, but he pulled her back to her chair. “Fine,” he could feel his anger rising, but the part of him that needed her body, needed her touch overpowered it. “I told Cersei and Joffrey that the plan was for you to marry Jaime because I knew they wouldn’t agree to you marrying me, initially. I said if Jaime wasn’t back within a moon then I’d marry you myself. I truthfully didn’t think he’d return and if he did, I didn’t think he would accept the betrothal, but it was enough to anger Cersei so that she was more receptive to me marrying you, knowing what the alternative was. Conversely, Joffrey agreed to the idea of you marrying Jaime – he thought wedding you to the _Kingslayer_ would disgrace you. Once he agreed to your and Jaime’s tentative marriage, he had no good reason to object to your and my tentative marriage.”

He thought this was enough, but she only blinked at him. He knew what she wanted. He sighed before continuing, “When Jaime returned, I hoped he wouldn’t accept. I tried to pressure him into it, knowing he always rebels against me when I give him such commands.”

She cocked her head, “Why did you want him to refuse?”

“Fuck, you know why!”

“No, I don’t.”

He glared at her, “Because I wanted you, damn it! I wanted you for myself!”

“Why?” She wasn’t going to make this easy on him, and he both respected and resented her for it.

“Because you were right – I do care for you! I do respect you! Your mind, your grace, your beauty. You’re everything I ever wanted, and yet everything I hoped would never exist in one woman, so I’d never have to betray my Joanna.” He was exhausted by his confession.

Her face softened and he hated receiving her pity. He didn’t want her to think him weak.

She ran her knuckles along his jaw, “Thank you for telling me the truth, Tywin, though I believe your fear is unfounded. If Lady Joanna loved you half as much as you clearly loved her, she’d never want you to deprive yourself of companionship, or love.”

He knew she spoke true, but it wasn’t that simple, “I know _she_ wouldn’t. It was I who didn’t want it for myself. I didn’t deserve a woman’s love. I still don’t…”

“No, you don’t…”

He looked up at her, surprised at her blunt reaction.

“…but you also don’t deserve to be the richest man in the realm. To live while more honorable men die… Would you relinquish your gold? Your lands? Your life?”

He shook his head.

“Then you shouldn’t relinquish your happiness, even if you don’t deserve it.”

Tywin snorted, “Happiness?”

She looked at him, puzzled, “Is a woman’s affection not something that would make you happy?”

He studied her eyes. They were so sincere, so curious. He took a risk, placing his hands on either side of her waist, not sure if she would welcome his touch, but she did, and returned it by placing her hands on either side of his neck. He leaned in and inhaled her scent – soap, skin, and strawberries. He pressed his lips to her collar bone and whispered the truth, “Not just _any_ woman’s affection…”

He trailed gentle kisses up and down her neck and shoulders until she purred in delight. He was fairly certain he had her permission, but he needed to hear it, “May I take you now, wife?”

She nodded and looked into his eyes, “You told me the truth, you may have me now husband.”

The slight difference in her word choice was not lost on him – he would not take; she would _give_. It took no time for him to return to his fully aroused state and he lifted her easily, her legs wrapping around his waist and her arms around his neck as he carried her to their bed. He laid her down gently and sought her mouth, kissing deeply but languidly. He tasted her lips – truly tasted them. He wanted to memorize the way she felt and tasted. When he entered her it was in similar style – unhurried, so he could feel every inch of her flesh as it yielded to his girth. She sucked in a breath as he pressed himself into her depths, feeling the tip of his manhood bump against her womb until her body stretched to accommodate him.

Resting on his forearms he carded his fingers through her hair, continuing to kiss her lips as he moved slowly inside her. It felt reverent. He wanted to make it last, desperate to maintain the connection to this woman who was otherworldly to him, but he was too pent up. He buried his face in her hair, and it was her name on his lips when he shattered, spilling his seed deep within her and for a brief moment imagining it taking root – imagining how happy he would be.

There it was again – that pesky little word – _happy._ What had Tywin Lannister ever done to deserve happiness? Somehow in such a brief time knowing him this young woman put into words what he’d never consciously realized. He allowed himself many luxuries in life, but he never permitted himself to be happy – not since Joanna’s death, at least. It was his way of punishing himself for failing his wife.

He turned to lay on his back, but his little wife seemed unready to break their contact as she nuzzled against his side, stroking his chest hair lazily.

“So troubled already after finding your release, my lord?” she gazed into his eyes.

“Not troubled, just thinking, my lady.”

“Hmpf. I’d scold you for lying again, but I don’t think you realize you’re doing it this time.”

He looked at her stunned, “I’m _not_ lying.”

“As you say,” she said dismissively. He wanted to be angry but how could he be angry at her for being right?

“Fine. If you must know every thought inside my head, I was simply pondering your words from earlier. About whether I deserve happiness.”

“And I thought we agreed you don’t, but it’s yours anyway…”

“And what if I don’t want it?”

“Then you’re a fool, and more like your daughter than you think.”

“Hmpf… then I suppose that doesn’t bode well for our marriage. You and Cersei are oil and water.”

“Indeed. Your daughter roots out happiness like it’s a weed in her garden.”

Suddenly a realization hit him, and he sat up, “She’s the one who told you about Jaime.”

“Of course she was. I’m surprised it took you this long to realize it,” she said casually.

Tywin felt his cheeks redden with anger, “She wanted to hurt you.”

“No, she wanted to hurt _us._ She wanted me to lash out at you, and I knew it’s what she wanted, but I still needed to know the truth. I needed to know what this marriage is to you.”

“Hmpf, so you knowingly played into her hand? I’d expect more from you.”

“As I said, I needed the truth. If you’d given it to me from the moment I asked, the unpleasantness could have been avoided…” she looked down to his cock before continuing, “though I dare say, it wasn’t all that unpleasant for you.”

He wanted to deny it, deny how much her dominance aroused him, but she would sniff out the lie. Instead he threw her accusation back, “I dare say it wasn’t unpleasant for you, either.”

She met his glare, “Disappointed?”

“Hardly, though I fear I’ll never want to eat a strawberry that hasn’t been dipped in your _cunt_ ,” he emphasized the last word with a nip of her earlobe.

For the first time all day, she smiled, and it was a mischievous, alluring thing, “That’s convenient, because I’ll never be able to watch you eat a strawberry without getting wet.”

He pulled her into his lap and licked her lips, “She-wolf,” he growled.

She nipped at his lips, “Lion.”


	25. Complications

**Cersei**

Cersei waited among the onlookers in the throne room for her father’s tall figure to appear. She couldn’t contain her smile while imagining the way he’d look upon entering. Angry, troubled, frustrated… She knew yesterday she’d been successful in manipulating the Northern whore. She could see the hurt in the girl’s eyes when she realized that whatever she _thought_ Tywin felt about her was wrong. He didn’t marry her out of love or even lust, though he clearly felt the latter for her; he married her out of obligation and due to his son’s rejection of her.

Cersei cared not that others might wonder why she was smiling to herself. They were but sheep, and she was a lioness. 

Only when her father walked in to hold court – Cersei’s joy turned to defeat. The Stark girl was on his arm, walking proudly beside him as if she thought _she_ was a lioness. When Sansa’s eyes landed on Cersei, the girl’s mouth twisted into something that was between a smile and a snarl. She curtsied to her husband before he ascended the stairs, and the nervy bitch chose to stand directly beside Cersei.

Before the proceedings started, she turned to face Cersei, a sickly-sweet smile on her face, “Good daughter, I did not appreciate it at the time, but I feel I now owe you thanks for giving me the truth yesterday. Entering into a marriage with secrets is unwise; your lord father and I now have a deeper understanding and respect for one another, and I have you to thank,” Sansa clasped Cersei’s hands warmly, a smile on her lips and in her eyes.

“Now I’d like to return the favor if you’d allow it. I know this is your first day back at court and I’m sure it must be difficult for you. You used to sit up there,” Sansa nodded toward the throne, “beside your eldest son, before he came of age. I know you must feel both pleased to see Tommen up there, becoming a good King in his own right, and sad that he no longer needs you. I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but I imagine the day a woman’s child becomes an adult is bittersweet. I want you to know I’m here to support you; I’m glad we were able to set aside our differences yesterday.”

As each word came out, spoken so innocently it made Cersei sick, the woman before her became a blob of red. Red hair, red skin, red dress… a small bundle of rage formed in the pit of Cersei’s stomach, expanding out in all directions until it filled her torso, head, and each of her limbs down to the pinky fingers and toes. Her arms were controlled by this red-hot fury, not by her normally cool head. Her hands clenched into fists and one of them smacked hard against the side of Sansa’s cheek, right above that ugly scar. Cersei watched the arm swing as if it were its own living thing. Her ears rang with white noise as the arm lifted to swing again, only it was caught by another arm – an arm belonging to a man in a cloak the same color as the red-tinted woman before her, the one who dared to call Cersei “daughter”… The one whose scheming led to Joffrey’s death... The one who stole Cersei’s father and who was gradually stealing all of her family – her brothers, aunts and uncle.

Legs were now kicking, her own legs, though she did not control them either. One caught the girl hard in the thigh before the arms of the strong man carried her out of the throne room, into the family keep, into her chambers, and unceremoniously dropped her on her bed before leaving her alone.

**Tywin**

“What the fuck did you say to her?” Tywin was seething. He’d been at court barely two minutes, waiting for Tommen to arrive, when he saw the commotion. His eyes were on his lady wife who was seemingly speaking kindly to Cersei. Then Cersei smacked her with her fist and kicked at her furiously. Tywin could barely get through court, so enraged was he. And now he stood in his solar alone with Sansa, ready to unload all the rage that had been building in him

Sansa returned his ire with her own, “I was nothing but kind to her! I thanked her for sharing the truth about Jaime, because I said it led to you and I coming to a deeper respect and understanding. And I tried to be sympathetic to her, knowing today would be a bittersweet day for her seeing her youngest child come of age.”

Tywin felt his lips curl into a snarl, but he couldn’t help it, “You think I’m stupid?!”

“No, husband, far from it,” she sighed.

“Your _words_ may have been kind, may have sounded kind to anyone who overheard them, but I know what you were doing. You were prodding her, trying to get a reaction.”

Her eyes held no shame, only contempt, “So what if I was? That’s what she did to me yesterday, only I managed to not physically attack her.”

“What do you think you’ll accomplish, hmm? You hate my daughter so much you want to make everyone think she’s mad?”

“As a matter of fact I do hate your daughter, and if someone treated you with a fraction of the cruelty Cersei has shown me over the years they’d be as dead as the Reynes. But no, I don’t need everyone to think she’s mad, I need _you_ to see that she _is_ mad.”

“She’s not mad! She’s distraught and you taunted her. Have you no shame?”

“Shame? Have I shame?” Sansa huffed, “Where was Cersei’s shame when _I_ was distraught not once but many times over? Was it in the way she stood by and did nothing when Joffrey tormented me?”

“She lost a child! Her firstborn son! You cannot compare your suffering to hers!”

Sansa stilled at his words, words which he instantly regretted, not because he didn’t mean them, but because he knew they sounded as if he were dismissive of Sansa’s feelings.

She became eerily calm, taking a seat, “You’re right, husband.”

_I am?_

“Her suffering and mine cannot be compared.”

_Perhaps it was the right thing to say._

“Cersei lost a son. One son, who was cruel, black hearted, arrogant, and not only unworthy of his crown but unworthy of the very air he breathed. I lost two younger brothers, innocent and sweet. I lost a father whose greatest “crime” was being too _honorable_. I lost an older brother who only ever wished to follow in his father’s honorable footsteps. I lost a mother who exuded grace and kindness everywhere she went the way Cersei exudes bitterness and contempt. I lost a sister who dreamed of becoming a knight, of defending the innocent…”

“I lost my own innocence – had it yanked out root and stem by the boy Cersei now mourns… If anyone has the right to go mad, it’s me.”

There was nothing Tywin could say in response to that. He was smart enough to know his defense of his daughter was illogical. He knew it was motivated by long-unexamined guilt and the love he still harbored for his only daughter. He cleared his throat, “Cersei will leave with the Tarlys in five days. She will wed Dickon and live with them at Horn Hill.”

Sansa snorted, “I hope Dickon knows to sleep in his armor.”

“You think Cersei would be dumb enough to kill her own husband? Randyll Tarly would take her head.”

“Would he? Does Cersei know that? Or is Cersei still counting on her father to protect her? It’s already gotten her out of one execution for attempted murder…”

“That is not the same thing and you know it!” Tywin spit.

She looked like she had more to say but pressed her lips together as if to contain whatever words were on her tongue. At that moment a knock was heard.

“Enter,” Tywin commanded.

It was Addam, announcing Randyll Tarly himself before he shut the door, leaving the couple alone again.

Tywin straightened his doublet, “We will continue this discussion later.”

“No,” she shook her head, “We won’t.” She pulled open the door and briefly stood face to face with Lord Tarly, who bowed his head stiffly. As Sansa walked past, Tywin thought he saw something like respect in Tarly’s eyes, but it must have been a trick of the lighting; Randyll Tarly had only three expressions Tywin had ever seen: seething rage, disgust, and cold indifference.

“Lord Lannister,” Tarly greeted him.

“Lord Tarly. I assume this is about the unfortunate display at court this morning. I can assure you—”

“It is not, Lord Lannister.”

“Oh?”

“Not entirely, no. Since we agreed on Dickon and Cersei’s betrothal, he has spent some time with your daughter.”

“Oh?” Tywin was uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

“Yes, and I apologize for my bluntness, but your daughter has not made a favorable impression.”

Tywin bristled, “How so?”

“In no uncertain terms she has made it clear that she will _not_ be a dutiful wife – in any capacity.”

Tywin wanted to tell Tarly that Cersei was just being stubborn, that after the wedding she would do her duty, but he respected Tarly too much to lie to the man, “So you wish to end the betrothal?”

Tarly nodded, “My son does. I advised him to _make_ her be a dutiful wife, but he did not find that appealing.”

_I can’t blame him._

Tywin hid his disappointment, “Your son is a good man; perhaps we will find another way to join our families.”

“I hope so, my lord.”

“Might I ask a small favor, Lord Tarly? Can we not speak of this failed betrothal publicly?”

Tarly eyed him but nodded, “Few knew about the betrothal to begin with. We will leave quietly in a few days and most will never know there was a plan for Cersei to accompany us.”

Tarly then bowed his exit. Another man would have apologized for breaking the betrothal or tried to offer some consolation. The fact that Tarly did neither only made Tywin respect him more. It felt odd to suddenly be surrounded by so many people who spoke to Tywin with brutal honesty – his brother, his youngest son, his new wife, Lord Tarly… even the bloody Hound – yet none of their honest words helped solve any of his monumental problems. For the first time in his life he wished to have the companionship of one _yes man_ if only to give him momentary peace of mind.

Tywin sat at his desk and sighed, exasperated. He was back at the beginning. He had an unruly daughter who would continue to meddle in his marriage not to mention Tommen’s life. She would undermine everything if allowed to stay in the capital – and yet what could he do? He considered sending her to Casterly Rock but by rights Sansa was now the Lady of the Rock and with any luck would be going there someday soon with their heir, and Tywin himself if he could find someone trustworthy to leave as Tommen’s Hand.

He considered other options, but none was something he was willing to impose on his daughter. In truth he never would give her to Ramsay Bolton, he had only presented that as an option to make Dickon Tarly look more appealing, which clearly was unsuccessful.

Willas Tyrell was the best option but apparently Olenna found the prospect of Willas marrying Cersei as unappealing as Margaery marrying Joffrey. Knowing that Olenna was not opposed to murdering those who threatened her family’s wellbeing meant Cersei wouldn’t be safe in the land of thorns.

Tywin considered other options. Euron Greyjoy was by all accounts mad, though Tywin would love to have the man’s loyalty (and fleet). There were plenty of Freys, and they’d not share Dickon Tarly’s reservations over taking an unwilling wife to bed, but Tywin despised the Freys, even if they’d come in handy in the recent war.

_The fucking war._

Wasn’t that to blame for all of these messes he now had to clean up? Too many young lords lost to battle. Too much hatred between the North and the South. Too much debt for the Crown. Too much distrust of the Crown and the men who wore it…

Tywin sighed. He couldn’t solve the Cersei problem now, and there were too many pressing matters to deal with. He sat down and focused on one task at a time, but even that was difficult, for his eyes kept lifting to look for Sansa at her little desk. He wanted to see her hair, her soft smile. He wanted to hear her occasional sigh, or the relaxing sound of her quill on parchment, which somehow sounded different than his own writing.

It was mid afternoon and he’d be working well into the night. Would she come seek him at dinner time? They were not married long enough to have established a routine, so he had no basis for expectation.

He needed to see her, and it made him feel weak. He picked up the stack of letters he had hoped Sansa would draft replies to and ascended the steps to their apartments. He found her not in her bedchamber or his but in the sitting room – and she wasn’t alone.

“Hello, Father,” Jaime spoke from his seat across from Sansa. A smile faded from Sansa’s lips – whatever Jaime had been saying before Tywin entered was either pleasing or amusing, and Tywin felt his chest clench.

“Jaime… _wife_ ,” Tywin responded before dropping the stack of letters on the table in front of Sansa, “I thought I’d save you the trouble of being in my presence today. You can work from here.”

Jaime rose as if to leave, clearly uncomfortable with the tension in the room, but Tywin pushed his shoulder down, “Don’t go son, I’m sure my wife is more interested in the company of someone closer to her age and _maturity_ level.”

Tywin turned to leave, but Sansa’s steady voice stilled him, “No husband, I’m more interested in the company of someone who came to ask how I’m feeling after being hit and kicked than by someone who only wants to know what words I spoke to _earn_ said blows.”

Tywin felt the blood drain from his face. She was right. He never asked her how she was doing. He didn’t offer words of comfort or send for something cold to press to her cheek or leg. He turned back to her now, vaguely aware that Jaime had lowered his head in attempt to make himself invisible, but acutely aware of the dark bruise on Sansa’s cheekbone. It must have been there when he last spoke to Sansa in his solar, but he didn’t even see it, he was too blinded by his own anger, too concerned with defending his daughter who’d done nothing to deserve his support. He felt profoundly guilty. Uncomfortably guilty.

He walked slowly and carefully toward Sansa where she still sat at the table, and though she held his gaze he saw fear building in her eyes. She was trying to hide it, but he saw it – recognized it from the times she’d seen Joffrey after his attack.

Tywin could not fathom why she’d be afraid of him now. He hadn’t been the one to hit her, that was Cersei. He’d been gentle with her on their wedding night and the next day… well…

She was the master holding the whip, and he her slave, only she looked as if it were the other way around. He needed to offer something, some gesture to show her she never had to fear him, that even when they disagreed or argued he’d not strike her. He lifted his hand to stroke her bruised cheek, but she flinched at the sudden movement, then blushed deeply in embarrassment of what she no doubt viewed as a display of weakness.

_She flinched. And it wasn’t an act…_

He dropped his hand and left without another word.

\----------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

Whatever momentary courage led her to defy Tywin in front of his son evaporated the moment he turned back around. She found an intensity in his eyes that she’d never seen before. She’d seen him angry, seen him remorseful, seen him happy… but this was different. She had pushed him too far, and in front of another person, no less. As he slowly walked back to her it took all her will to hold his gaze… the eyes he shared not just with Jaime but also with Cersei and Joffrey. And now they were boring into her. She wanted to close her eyes, take whatever punishment he doled out, and be done with this, but her pride would not allow it.

Only when he was but a foot away from her, he stopped, staring at her oddly, as if he didn’t understand her at all. Was it so hard for him to see her side? For him to see that Cersei was unhinged, dangerous?

He lifted his hand suddenly and she flinched, then inwardly cursed herself for it. She’d been subjected to all manner of abuse from people with no right to give it, why should a slap from her lord husband frighten her so?

But the punishment never came, and he was gone. Was it all a show of power? Did he only want to have her fear and once he saw it, he was satisfied? Sansa was thoroughly befuddled, and it seemed Jaime would be no help. He patted her hand kindly enough, but then he too was gone, leaving her alone with her thoughts.


	26. A Mistake

**Jaime**

He knew it was a mistake as soon as he entered her room. He knew it was a mistake when she kissed him and he didn’t push her away. He knew it was a mistake when she began undressing him. But once he was inside her he breathed a sigh of relief he’d been holding in for years. It couldn’t be a mistake when it felt like the rightest thing in the world. And that’s how it had always been for him with Cersei. It felt natural. His brain knew it was wrong by other people’s standards, but his heart knew it couldn’t be wrong… couldn’t be wrong to show your love for the person you literally entered the world with, who had been with you through everything. The person whose arms you sought when your mother died. The person who knows your thoughts before you think them. The person whose eyes mirror your own.

But the peace only lasted for as long as they were joined. The person she was in those minutes didn’t exist before or after. But this day, instead of rushing him out of her bed as she always used to do, she lay back, smiling at him warmly. It was almost enough to make him want to stay in her bed forever. Almost enough to make him not care that the guards would soon start wondering why a lunch with her brother in her chambers should last so long.

When he succumbed to her touch, he told himself it was goodbye, for she’d be leaving soon to go to Horn Hill – to wed Dickon Tarly and be out of Jaime’s life forever. He told himself he was giving her comfort; for all Joffrey’s faults he was still her son – _their_ son. But the truth was he was just weak, just lonely, and craving the only touch he ever longed for. He wasn’t comforting her, she was comforting him, and that was something new. In all their years together everything was done on her terms, and he didn’t mind. She sought him out when she needed comfort or release – not the other way around.

And that feeling was almost enough to make him forget about all the horrible things she’d done. The men she’d slept with, the way she’d treated Sansa, the way she turned a blind eye to Joffrey’s behavior.

_Almost._

And perhaps a few more such encounters would make him forget for good, if it weren’t for the words that followed, revealing her true intent.

“Are you really going to let him send me away?” she asked innocently.

“How am I supposed to stop him, Cersei?”

“By talking to him. Convincing him that I belong here – with you, with Tommen… Tommen needs my guidance.”

Jaime snorted. He’d been back over a month and Cersei had ignored him or been cruel to him until today when she invited him to dine with her. And though it pained Jaime to admit it, her guidance was the last thing Tommen needed – seeing just how _helpful_ she was with Joffrey.

“Cersei, he wouldn’t be sending you away if it weren’t for your behavior. For the way you speak to Sansa, for what you plotted with Lancel, for what you did yesterday… You could have lived the rest of your days here.”

She looked pained by his words, but they were the truth and he would not retract them.

She visibly fortified herself, clasping Jaime’s one hand in both of hers, “Please, Jaime… listen to me. I know you don’t see it, but I do, because I’m a woman. I can see what she’s plotting. Think about it – why would she be nice to you when you were the one who arrested her father? Why would she be nice to any of us when we’ve been at war with her family for years. Why would she be nice to our father who was involved in murdering her mother and brother? Why, Jaime?”

She made a good point, and Jaime struggled to answer the question. The obvious explanation was that Sansa simply accepted her fate or was drawn to his father’s undeniable power. Nothing about the girl seemed disingenuous, but was it possible she was pulling the wool over all their eyes?

“Jaime, don’t you see that once she has an heir your right to Casterly Rock is gone? Father will not live forever and once he dies, she will rule the West until her son comes of age, then influence the West through her son! Do you really trust her in that position after all the reasons she has to hate us?”

“Cersei, do you really think all hundred of us Lannisters will sit around and watch her destroy our house and do nothing to stop her just because she is the mother of father’s heir?”

“The girl is cunning, Jaime, I see it now. I didn’t say she’s going to burn Casterly Rock to the ground, but she can make moves that jeopardize the West and strengthen the North…”

“So what do you want me to do? Kill her? Because she _might_ one day in the _future_ do things that _could_ jeopardize our legacy?”

Jaime felt his anger mount. He had thought Cersei wanted _him._ He thought she’d finally gotten over whatever spell had her forgetting their love, but now he realized she was just using him as a sword. Like she always did. Here for her when she needed something, but his loyalty and servitude was never reciprocated.

Sansa could burn Casterly Rock to the ground for all he cared in that moment. In his time as the Stark’s captive he saw more honor and strength of character in Robb and Catelyn Stark than in all the Lannisters combined, himself included. Perhaps Sansa deserved her revenge, if that’s indeed what she wanted, and he was about to tell Cersei just that when she spoke, “Not _her._ It will be too obvious if she dies. Father will suspect me immediately and he will be merciless,” Cersei pressed a small vial in Jaime’s left hand, “ _Him…”_

“What is this?” he asked, though he feared he knew the answer.

“A painless death, no one will suspect foul play at his age and with all the stress he’s been under. And if they do, they’ll suspect his young wife before any of his children.”

A thousand questions fought for dominance in Jaime’s mind, and it was probably the least important that came to his tongue, “Where did you get this?”

“It doesn’t matter, I’ve had it a long time.”

“You want me to kill our own Father, because you dislike his wife?” Jaime’s ears found his tone oddly flat considering the torrent of emotions raging through him.

“Once she has an heir it will be too late, unless you want to kill a babe,” she said the words as if confident that prospect would make Jaime go along with her deranged plan.

“You want me to kill our own Father?” he repeated.

“Jaime he isn’t thinking straight! He is doing exactly what _his_ father did, what nearly ruined our house forever – letting himself be led around by a whore! It’s time to take your place, Jaime! You’ve lost your sword hand, you’re no good as a knight anymore, as a soldier or a guard. It’s time to be Lord of Casterly Rock. I’ll come with you; we can be together. I won’t stop you from marrying – I know you need heirs – as long as I have your love. It will be just like with Robert – we didn’t let him get in the way of our love!”

He stared at her in disbelief. To her this was the soundest plan. She spoke of killing their father as if it was tantamount to ridding a cellar of rats.

“You want me to kill our own Father?” it seemed to be all he could say. Perhaps if he said it enough times, she would realize how ridiculous it sounded. But she just stared at him expectantly, cupping his face and promising all the things he never wanted.

He clasped his hand around the vial and left before he had to hear another word.


	27. Blame

**Sansa**

Sansa had slept in her own bedchamber the previous night, knowing Tywin would not wish to see her after the way he left her that afternoon. He did not seek her out for the evening meal, instead sending a servant to bring her supper to her room. He did not seek her out at all, and Sansa was beginning to regret her insolence of the previous day. It’s not that she felt she had been wrong, but perhaps Tywin also wasn’t wrong. Cersei was still his daughter. He was going to send her away with the Tarlys, yet Sansa still gave him grief. What exactly was she expecting of him? To murder his own daughter? He’d already murdered his grandson for her. Why did she feel so insistent on turning Tywin against his own daughter? She rationalized that it was due to the attack on her life, but if that was her true motive, then why wasn’t she afraid for her life?

No, her motives were much less noble. She hated Cersei. She despised her at the core of her being, and _that_ frightened her, because _Cersei_ was hateful. Had Sansa become bitter? No sooner had Joffrey been disposed of than Sansa found a new target for her hatred.

But she didn’t want to be like Cersei. She didn’t want to be a woman motivated by anger and hate instead of happiness and love. She made up her mind by mid-day and made her way to her husband’s solar.

**Tywin**

For the second day in a row Tywin could not focus on his growing list of tasks. He’d never cared what anyone thought of him, but now, only a few days into his marriage, the idea that his wife was angry at him, thought he failed her, and worst of all, that she had looked afraid of him, was more than he could bear. He should have gone to her last night to apologize, but he was too bloody stubborn. He could have spent the night with her in his arms, instead he slept alone, restless and cold.

He thought to summon her to have lunch with him when Addam announced her presence outside his solar. He immediately rose and when she entered, he fought the urge to go to her, not knowing whether she would yet welcome his proximity. “My lady,” he said instead.

“My lord, I came to…” she paused, looking uncertain, “I came to apologize for my behavior yesterday. You were right – it was inappropriate and childish to rile Cersei. And on reflecting on my actions all morning, I realize that they weren’t motivated by any worthy reason. I simply wanted her to be angry, because she made me angry. But I realize that it is not fair to you. You’re sending your daughter away, and there is nothing more I can ask of you. I don’t want to add to your already significant troubles, my lord. I want to help alleviate them, if you’ll still accept my help.”

She was waiting for his response. She handed him the upper hand, she was accepting the blame, and a lifetime’s worth of instinct told him to let her take it, to absolve himself – but something stopped him. He remembered her face yesterday, the fear in her eyes, the way she flinched at his attempt to comfort her. With a sigh he walked around his desk to stand in front of her.

“Sansa,” he started, but words escaped him. He wanted to kneel down and apologize, to tell her he would never hurt her, but he couldn’t say any of it. “Of course I’ll accept your help,” he said gently.

She smiled shyly, “What can I do?”

Just then Addam knocked again. Tyrion had arrived right on time. Tywin growled to himself, but softened his face to look back at Sansa, “You can help Tyrion and me solve a rather difficult problem. One that you’ll feel personally invested in, I’m sure.”

Once Tyrion and Sansa were seated Tywin began, “I was visited by Randyll Tarly yesterday afternoon. He has called off Dickon and Cersei’s betrothal. No one knows this yet – including Jaime – and it will remain so for the time being.”

Tyrion winced, but Sansa drew a hand to her mouth, “Is it because of yesterday morning – at court?”

Once again Tywin saw an opportunity he should have leapt on, to let Sansa feel she was to blame, but it would be a lie and her recent threat in that regard he would not take lightly, “No. It may have been a factor, but Cersei had already made a very bad impression on Dickon, made it clear she would not be a _willing_ bride or wife…

“Sounds like Cersei,” Tyrion muttered unhelpfully.

“The dilemma, in case it isn’t obvious, is what to do with Cersei. Willas Tyrell is off the table, and frankly I don’t trust either the Freys or Boltons with Cersei,” he looked to Sansa, expecting her to bristle at this. No doubt she thought no husband was too low or cruel for Cersei, but if she did so she held her tongue.

Tyrion cleared his throat, “Well in terms of the greatest benefit for House Lannister, the obvious answer is Euron Greyjoy.”

Tywin leaned back, “It would indeed, but I fear he’d be a worse husband than Robert Baratheon was…”

Tywin and Tyrion went back and forth for several minutes, exchanging several names but each had too many drawbacks. Finally Sansa spoke, “Lord Royce – who was here for the wedding. He has a high station within the Vale, but in speaking out against Petyr Baelish he showed his loyalty to you, Tywin. He was very kind to me during our brief interactions, yet he doesn’t strike me as a man that can be easily manipulated.”

It was actually an excellent idea. Sansa did not know that Royce had been feeding information to Tywin long before the Royal Wedding. He was a man of principles; he could be stern, but Tywin agreed with Sansa’s impression that he would not be cruel.

Sansa continued, “He seems to have much influence in the Vale and would be a good ally to have. But if that is not agreeable to you than I would consider sending Cersei to Dorne. Let her live with the Martells and her daughter Myrcella. Being there for Myrcella through her marriage and later when she has children – it may give Cersei a renewed sense of purpose. I know my mother was always happiest when one of my siblings was just born and she had a new babe to dote on.”

“So, _not_ wed her?” Tyrion asked.

Sansa shrugged, “Cersei will resist any marriage you suggest. You will either have to find a man willing to take her kicking and screaming – who also meets all your other criteria – or you need to send her away somewhere she will _want_ to go and forget about securing some advantage through marriage.”

Tyrion laughed, “Of course, we’ve been assuming a marriage would strengthen an alliance for us, but more likely whoever the poor husband is will feel he’s been wronged on a deal.”

Tywin didn’t appreciate his son’s humor, but he had to admit both of Sansa’s suggestions had merit.

After dismissing Tyrion, Sansa stayed to help Tywin. As she had done for so many weeks, she sat at her desk responding to letters and reviewing some supply contracts. Soon he would give her more responsibility, but for now he was content just to have her quiet presence.

When their late lunch was brought in Sansa blushed crimson at the sight of a bowl of ripe strawberries, and Tywin knew he would not be having two cold and lonely nights in a row.


	28. What Brothers Are For

**Tyrion**

After departing the company of his father and _good-mother_ , Tyrion was headed to his own solar when Jaime accosted him in the hallway, “Where have you been?” Jaime asked agitatedly.

“I was with Father and Sansa helping with… never mind… what’s wrong?”

Jaime pushed into Tyrion’s room, running a hand through his short blond hair.

“Jaime, what is wrong?”

“I was with Cersei yesterday afternoon,” Jaime blurted out, blushing.

“With Cersei or _with_ Cersei?” Tyrion asked.

Jaime clenched his jaw, “ _With_ Cersei – and you can lecture me about that later, but there are more pressing matters… I’ve been trying to decide what to do but… I’m at a loss…” Jaime pulled a small vial containing some amber liquid out of his pocket.

“Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“It’s some kind of poison.”

“Gods! She intends to poison Sansa?”

“No, that’s what I thought, too. She wants me to poison _father_ before he can get Sansa with child – a child that would be named his heir.”

Over the next hour a frantic Jaime told a bewildered Tyrion everything Cersei had told and asked of him the day before. Tyrion’s head was spinning until he remembered his conversation with his father and Sansa that morning, “Jaime – is Cersei doing this to stop her marriage to Dickon – is that what has pushed her this far?”

Jaime shook his head emphatically, “No, she is convinced Sansa will destroy our House bit by bit… that once father dies Sansa will use her power to destroy our legacy.”

“But if father dies before she’s had a son…” Tyrion began.

“Right,” Jaime nodded, “then rights to Casterly Rock revert back to me, and Sansa goes back to being a ward of the Crown.”

“And free to be married to whomever would benefit Cersei…” Tyrion realized aloud.

Jaime nodded, “So what do I do? If I tell Father, he may very well kill Cersei. In a few days she’ll be leaving with the Tarlys, but…”

“I know,” Tyrion finished, “you’re worried she won’t stop… that Father needs to be warned.”

Jaime sat down heavily on Tyrion’s settee, seemingly exhausted by his retelling of events.

Tyrion looked at his beloved brother, facing yet another impossible decision. He came to Tyrion seeking guidance, reassurance, an answer to his questions. Tyrion gave him all, “Cersei won’t be able to do anything once she’s in Horn Hill, not easily at least. After she leaves with the Tarlys, _then_ you tell father of the threat. He will put every precaution in place to protect himself and his wife. He will have someone taste all their food; he will double their guards… and hopefully Cersei will be too distracted by her new life to spend time plotting assassination attempts. Besides – you said her plan is to go to Casterly Rock _with_ you. She won’t want you there without her, she’s a jealous woman. She would fear killing father would prompt you to take your place at the Rock, to marry… she might worry that you would marry Sansa yourself!”

Jaime looked ten years younger as his face relaxed, “Thank you Tyrion. You’re right.”

Tyrion nodded at the vial, still clutched in Jaime’s hand, “Give me that, Jaime. I’ll see it disposed of.”

Jaime looked all to eager to be rid of the small object that represented the great crime his twin wanted him to commit; Tyrion tried not to look to eager to take it.


	29. What Brothers Are For II

**Tyrion**

There were some benefits to everyone assuming you spent your days whoring and drinking, one of which was that no one questioned where you disappeared to for hours on end, even when you were someone as important as the Hand of the King, as Tyrion briefly was.

But in reality there were other activities that Tyrion enjoyed as much as drinking and whoring: learning and exploration. That’s why when he learned of the Mad King’s forgotten hoards of wildfire beneath the capital, Tyrion couldn’t resist the urge to personally explore each and every secret tunnel. The most interesting ones were those which led out of the city and those which formed a labyrinth beneath and through the Red Keep, including Maegor’s Holdfast. He had painstakingly mapped and memorized those that led to the Royal Apartments and other places of note, thinking it would someday be useful, such as for leading his family out of the city in the event of a sack, or sneaking in a particularly lovely whore.

Now, sometime well after midnight he made his way through these secret tunnels to Cersei’s bedchamber. Entering the room through the hidden door he considered waking her immediately, but decided he needed wine before he’d be able to say what he came to say. He poured himself a goblet, but the sloshing sound woke her. Her eyes found him and for a moment he thought she’d scream so he lifted his hands in surrender. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“I come in peace, sister.”

“How did you get in? My door is barred.”

“Secret tunnel,” he nodded at her wardrobe which he had purposely left open, so she’d see the _other_ door open within it.

“And don’t worry – I’ve never been in here without your knowledge before.”

She stood up abruptly, “Why did you feel the need to come here in secrecy?”

“Because I did not think it wise for anyone to know you and I are conversing, given the subject of the conversation we’re about to have.”

“Which is?”

Tyrion produced the vial, “That if you want to kill Tywin Lannister, you picked the wrong brother to be your accomplice.”

Hope flashed in her eyes for but a moment before they narrowed again, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tyrion forced a chuckle, “Come now sister, we both know Jaime lacks the ingenuity and, more importantly, the motive to concoct the story he told me earlier today.”

“Then why am I still alive? Gods know you have no love for me. Father might forgive an attempt on his wife’s life, but on his own?” Cersei lifted her brows, challenging Tyrion to explain himself

“You’re still alive because I haven’t told Father – or Lady Sansa. As far as I know, Jaime and I are the only ones who know of your plot.”

“And what? You came to rub it in my face that you’ve foiled my plan?”

“Oh on the contrary,” Tyrion sipped deeply from his cup, “I have no intention of foiling your plan. I rather want to make sure it works, so I need to know what I’m dealing with here,” he dangled the vial in between three fingers, “What is it? How fast will it work? Will anyone suspect anything? Jaime was short on details…”

“You’re going to kill Father? You think I’d believe that you’d do that for me?”

“Oh Heavens no, I rather wish I had two of these vials so I could eliminate both of the people who’ve seen fit to treat me like a worthless lump of flesh unfit to bear the Lannister name. Though as I only have one vial, I’m forced to choose the _greater_ of two evils.”

“That’s it? Because father hasn’t been nice to you, you wish to see him dead?” Cersei asked skeptically.

“Not _nice_?” Tyrion laughed, “Father isn’t nice to _anyone_. I can live with his aloofness. But when he refuses to acknowledge me as his heir after the thousandth time Jaime refused his birthright, it got to be more insult than even I could ignore.”

A wicked smile spread on his sister’s face, “You wanted Sansa for yourself? And father didn’t even give you the chance.”

Tyrion looked down at his feet, “It’s the principle Cersei. Like it or not, I’m his son, same as Jaime…”

“So you want him dead so you can claim Sansa for your own? So you can have the Rock?”

“The former, not the latter,” Tyrion walked to her balcony, looking out over the sleeping city through her sheer curtains which were blowing gently in the cool breeze.

She came to stand beside him, “You think I’m a fool? Why _wouldn’t_ you want the West?”

“Jaime told me your plan – that he should take the Rock, and I agree. It is his birthright after all and I fear for him, having no purpose now that he’s lost the very thing that defined him.”

His sister was no fool, “You want the North?” she asked with genuine surprise.

Tyrion sighed, “I’m done with this city. I’m done with the South. I’m done living in the shadows of my family. I want a fresh start. And though I may look like a monster, I’m not a raper.”

Cersei chuckled quietly, “You think you can buy her love by bringing her North?”

“I’m not that naïve, Cersei. I think I can earn her gratitude, her respect, perhaps her affection. _Love?_ I’m not going to get ahead of myself,” he stepped out onto the balcony, staring wistfully at the stars. It was a dark, moonless night – a reflection of the blackness he felt in his heart, a perfect backdrop for the moment he resigned himself to be a kinslayer.

“So that’s it then?” Cersei followed him, speaking in a whisper, “You kill father, Jaime takes the Rock, and you take Sansa to Winterfell?”

Tyrion nodded, “I’ll need Tommen to name us Warden and Wardeness of the North, and I’ll need some men in case the Boltons don’t depart Winterfell peacefully. I’ll even take the Stark name if that will make things easier for the Northerners to stomach, Gods know I’ve never felt much like a Lannister.”

Cersei leaned with her back against the railing, turning her head to face her brother while considering his proposal.

He sighed, “Or I’ll do nothing. Father and Sansa live happily ever after, and you marry Dickon Tarly and live under Randyll’s rather heavy thumb.”

Tyrion steeled himself while she deliberated, but he couldn’t wait another moment for fear of losing his nerve; he held out his hand, “Do we have a deal, sister?”

The grin returned along with the subtlest of nods, and she shook his hand.

“Good,” he nodded back, before grasping her knees and throwing them up and over the railing, following the upper half of her body. There was a shriek, but Tyrion was already in the wardrobe and closing the tunnel door behind him before the footsteps could be heard in her room. He waited but a moment until he heard shouting, then he hurried back through the tunnels and into his own room.

A minute later a Red Cloak knocked, and Tyrion answered the door while rubbing his eyes sleepily. “Somebody had better be dead,” he said in reference to being disturbed at that hour, and when the guard stared back at him, he donned a confused expression, “What?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too many people commented on Ch 28 for me to respond but to all, but you guys are AMAZING! I loved seeing everyone speculating as to Tyrion's next move. I hope this didn't disappoint. 
> 
> P.S. when picturing Cersei going over the railing the phrase 'ass over teakettle' applies. RIP Cersei - I don't hate you, despite the way I've depicted you in this fic.
> 
> Thanks to all my readers and commenters - who knew there were so many TySan fans out there? You're all awesome and make me feel truly encouraged.


	30. Family

**Tywin**

Tywin Lannister had seen many dead bodies in his life, and not just in battle. His father, his wife, his grandson, and now his daughter. His daughter, who was one of the most beautiful women in the realm, now lay before Tywin, body broken from falling six stories from her balcony to the stone floor of the courtyard. Tywin’s eyes followed the path of her blood along the mortar-filled cracks between stones. It trickled north toward the center of the courtyard and Tywin pondered that the ground was not level here, that a ball placed on the southern side of the courtyard would roll the same direction.

Tywin finally turned toward his family – those few who’d been awoken by the frantic guards immediately after Cersei’s death.

His son Tyrion was staring at his sister’s lifeless body with a look of shock and perhaps a hint of nausea in his disfigured face.

Tywin’s wife, who was only here because he did not want to leave her alone and lightly guarded, was staring wide-eyed at Cersei’s body. He wondered if behind her disbelief was regret or relief. If not for the fact that he fell asleep and woke with her body fully ensconced in his protective arms, he might have wondered if she had something to do with Cersei’s death.

Tywin’s eyes could linger on the third face only briefly. His eldest son, normally tall and confident, looked as broken as his twin. His face was pained – physically pained – as if it was a limb and not a sibling he lost. Tywin wondered if that’s how he himself looked after Joanna died.

As if all strength suddenly left his body, Jaime dropped heavily to his knees, not even wincing as kneecaps met hard stone. Instinctively, Tywin’s young wife put a hand to Jaime’s head, but it seemed he needed more contact, more comfort, as he buried his face in her side, weeping into her robe as she stroked his golden head. Tywin was both angered and hurt by the extent of his son’s suffering – hurt because he could sympathize with the pain which clamped down on one’s heart like a vice, making breathing, talking, thinking, and simply _existing_ feel like an impossible task. Anger because he knew the pain was not one of a man losing a sibling – even a twin – it was a man losing his love.

Tywin took the three steps to be close to where his son knelt, “Get up,” he demanded through gritted teeth, eyes flashing toward the many guards who stood a respectable distance away.

Sansa met his eyes knowingly, “Ser Jaime, please, this is too much for me, would you escort me to my bedchamber so I may sit?”

Whether glad for a purpose or anxious to be behind closed doors, Jaime nodded, composed himself, stood, and without looking at his father took Sansa’s arm and disappeared behind the columns.

That left Tywin standing with his younger son, and he now felt comfortable saying that which he would not say in front of Jaime, “The guards heard her shriek. Why would she shriek if she had thrown herself from her balcony?”

Tyrion looked up, perplexed, “You suspect foul play?” It was half question, half statement.

Tywin shook his head, “The guards were in her room as quickly as it takes to unlock it with the keys. She was alone.”

Tyrion pursed his lips in thought, “ _Inside_ she was alone – is it possible someone scaled the walls, like cousin Lancel did when Cersei…” Tyrion trailed off, no doubt thinking it uncouth to remind his father how Cersei recently tried to murder Sansa.

Again Tywin shook his head, “The main keep isn’t like the Tower of the Hand. It would take rope and ladder to ascend it from the outside, and the guards would surely have seen that – not to mention the assailant descending.”

Tyrion was clearly thinking through the possibilities. It was what Tywin begrudgingly respected about his otherwise irredeemable son – he had a sharp mind and was always ready to tackle tough problems, “Is it possible the guards were asleep, and someone simply walked through her door unnoticed?”

“Possible, but highly unlikely. They’d have passed more than just the two guards outside her chambers. Besides, the men who guard her now are Lannister men, and I’ve made it quite clear the importance of having Cersei guarded at all times. I do not see both of them falling asleep on the job.”

Tyrion nodded, “Even so, perhaps I’ll question them, if you agree; see if I can detect any guilt or deceit.”

A grunt was Tywin’s affirmative response.

“Go to your brother and good-mother. Take a few of the guards with you. I’ll stay here to take care of…”

Tyrion nodded and looked ready to leave before stopping himself, “I’m sorry, father. Despite her recent behavior, I know she was still—”

“Go, Tyrion.” He couldn’t let those words come out of his son’s mouth. Hearing them spoken aloud would surely have him in a puddle of grief rivaling Jaime’s. And if Tyrion heard the way his voice cracked as he spoke, he ignored it, and left his father’s company as requested.

The two words that would have concluded Tyrion’s statement were already echoing in Tywin’s mind… _your daughter._ Tywin couldn’t shake the guilt he felt – the regret he once confessed to Sansa – that he forced Cersei to marry Robert Baratheon, the drunken womanizer who had no business being a king – being anything other than a soldier. But that wasn’t the only source of guilt for him in this moment. The other guilt was much fresher – a raw wound still tender to even a feather-light touch. Guilt born the moment he saw his daughter’s broken and lifeless body in the courtyard, when mixed in with the shock was a glimmer of… _relief._

**Tyrion**

The sight of his brother was enough to make Tyrion regret what he’d done. Perhaps Cersei would have agreed to go to the Vale, or to Dorne. Perhaps she’d have left Sansa and father in peace, found happiness in a new life, a change of scenery...

If those thoughts didn’t ring so false, Tyrion might have been tempted to throw _himself_ off the balcony. But the truth was whatever guilt he felt – even at the thought that Cersei _might_ have been able to redeem herself – was not for the crime he committed; it was for the grief it caused his brother. His normally strong, proud brother, who now sat curled into himself, crying into Sansa’s chest as she stroked his back and head, whispering words of comfort that no doubt fell on deaf ears.

Sansa looked up at Tyrion pleadingly, no doubt hoping he could offer some comfort to his kin that she could not.

“Jaime,” Tyrion tried, “She was suffering, perhaps not the suffering of grief or sadness, but she was not herself, she was consumed by anger, which can be just as painful. She is at peace now.”

“It’s my fault,” Jaime whispered after a few moments.

“It is not your fault, Jaime,” Tyrion spoke sternly, “you did nothing wrong; she was the one who was cold to you after you came back—”

“Not that, Tyrion,” Jaime sat up, words suddenly devoid of all emotion, “the other day, when she told me of her plan for father, I shouldn’t have left. I should have seen she was desperate. I should have insisted she had guards in her room, or that the maester give her a sedative… _something_.”

Tyrion felt his cheeks flush when Sansa looked to him, confused, “What plan for your father?”

“Nothing—” Tyrion started, but was interrupted by Jaime’s ironic laughter.

“Oh there is no need to keep secrets now, brother. Cersei is dead, father can’t do anything to her she hasn’t already done to herself.”

“What are you talking about?” Sansa eyes widened.

“Our sweet sister,” Jaime offered, bitterness now replacing the despair that tinged his voice moments ago, “approached me with a vial of poison. Asked me to murder our father, take Casterly Rock for myself, before you have time to bring a new heir into the world and single-handedly destroy out family legacy.”

Sansa’s eyes widened, “What?! Why didn’t you tell your father? What if she had succeeded in killing him?”

“I took the poison from her so she couldn’t…”

“What if she had more?”

Tyrion detected that Sansa’s concern for her husband’s life went beyond self-preservation. She was genuinely frightened by the prospect of her husband being taken from her. Tyrion felt simultaneously vindicated for his act of kinslaying and jealous that his father – his cruel, cold, ruthless father – somehow managed to earn the affection of a sweet and beautiful young woman.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Jaime continued, but Tyrion interrupted him.

“It doesn’t matter. Father is alive and Cersei is dead. There is no use torturing yourself over might-have-beens.”

“We should have done something, Tyrion,” Jaime said weakly.

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, and she slowly turned from Jaime to Tyrion, eyes studying him in a way that made him feel even smaller than usual. He literally squirmed in his chair.

Tyrion swallowed hard, “We made a call, Jaime. We did what we thought best to protect Cersei. Her blood is not on your hands.”

He could not meet Sansa’s eyes, but he knew they were still fixed on him.

“Jaime let’s get you to your bedchamber. Come on, I’ll sleep on your settee.”

Jaime didn’t move, seemingly having an epiphany, “It doesn’t make any sense. If she was so worried about the fate of our house, why kill herself? Why not try to see it through? You know Cersei… she’s a _fighter_.”

Tyrion was running out of energy, but mercifully Sansa interceded, “Perhaps losing Joffrey changed her. And her other children are grown, no longer need her, perhaps she was tired of fighting…” Sansa looked down at her lap, “I suppose I may not look like much of a fighter, but I believe I have proven to be one. Even I have had moments of… of thinking it would be easier to just give up, though I dare say no one looking at me would have ever suspected my dark thoughts.”

Jaime was staring at her, mouth slightly open, but she continued, “I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but your sister was an accomplished liar, an effective mummer… she hid her sadness and pain behind a mask of strength. Ser Jaime, there was no reason for you to suspect her true thoughts then, and no reason for you to doubt them now. Do not torture yourself with regret. Mourn your sister, grieve for her, and be there for your… be there for King Tommen as he grieves his mother. Be there for your father and your brother as they grieve. Perhaps a trip to Dorne would do you well… you could be there for your niece Myrcella as she grieves her mother.”

Her poignant words brought forth the Knight – the part of Jaime always ready to rise to a challenge. Sansa offered him a purpose, and he was all to eager to latch onto it. He nodded and clasped her hand, “Thank you, Sansa. You are right.”

“No thanks are needed, Ser Jaime,” she smiled weakly, “it’s what family is for. We support each other in our hours of greatest need. You know your sister and I had no love between us, but I truly am sorry for your loss.”

Jaime snorted, and Sansa misinterpreted it, “You don’t believe me?” she asked, mildly insulted.

Jaime shook his head, “No – I know you are speaking true. Just the whole _‘family supporting each other’_ – it’s an unfamiliar concept, but perhaps us Lannisters could stand to learn a thing or two from you Starks.”

A smile pulled up the corner of her mouth, “More than a thing or two…” she mumbled, earning a laugh from Jaime before she continued, “I would ask a favor of you though, if you agree with me, of course… what Cersei had planned for your father he does not need to know. Let him believe his daughter still loved him when she died.”

The amusement drained from Jaime’s face but he nodded solemnly. Tyrion also nodded his assent.

Jaime rose, clearly ready to depart to the comfort of his bed after what was probably the worst night of his life. Tyrion noted the sun was rising in the sky as he, too, stood. Sansa approached him, addressing him directly for the first time in several minutes, “I’m very sorry for your loss, Tyrion. I hope you know I’m sympathetic to the pain of what you went through tonight, and I’m sorry you had to suffer it…” she paused for emphasis, “You are a good brother, and a _good son_.”

She turned away then, and Tyrion was glad, for he had no power to keep the shock from showing on his face when he realized that she knew what he did… and she just thanked him for it.


	31. Monsters

**Sansa**

Sansa laid in bed, but sleep would not claim her. Too many thoughts invaded her mind, and it didn’t help that it was now past sunrise and her body’s instinct was to wake. She reflected on the past several hours. On seeing Cersei’s body she initially rejoiced; but now she kept picturing the beautiful, broken woman on the ground and a nagging thought consumed her. 

_That could be me._

It wasn’t sharing the woman’s death she suddenly feared, it was sharing her _life._ Following in her footsteps, so to speak. Becoming cold and bitter, meddlesome and manipulative. A long marriage to Joffrey certainly would have made Sansa become like Cersei – perhaps even worse. Sansa thought of her actual husband, a man she _felt_ like she knew, yet kept his emotions so guarded. _What if my marriage to him turns me just as bitter?_

When Jaime knelt down beside her in the courtyard, the weight of his suffering collapsing his legs, Sansa knew that there must have been _some_ good in Cersei Lannister, even if only in the past... Otherwise this kind-hearted man would never have fallen in love with her, would he? Sansa wondered whether he now grieved Cersei of today or Cersei of yesteryear. Looking to her husband, who was unreadable as always, she had a similar question.

_Who would mourn me, if I became like Cersei? None in my family are alive to remember the innocent girl I was…_

An image came unbidden to her mind of Sandor, aged some years, staring down upon her own lifeless corpse in the Great Sept. While everyone else only pretended to mourn the cold Lady Lannister, his mourning was genuine, though his cheeks were dry.

Sansa snapped up out of bed, pacing restlessly. She desperately wanted to go to Sandor if only to have him call her a _little bird._ She needed to feel young and dumb and innocent, because it was so unlike how she really felt – for the transformation into someone like Cersei Lannister wasn’t some future thing that _could_ happen – no, it was already underway. She had _celebrated_ Joffrey’s death, and even Littlefinger’s. She didn’t pray to the Father to take mercy on them. She didn’t care about the waste of life, the waste of potential. She didn’t care that their blood was on her husband’s hands, in fact it made her attraction to the man blossom!

Even before the _Purple Wedding_ – she celebrated the deaths of six men of the Kingsguard, and not just the two who had assaulted her, but the other four who chose not to partake. They probably were just as afraid as she, for if they refused their king’s heinous orders it would mean their deaths. Why didn’t she ask Tywin to spare them? Or throw them in the Black Cells? Worse – if Tywin knew his ultimate plan for Joffrey, why didn’t _he_ think to spare them? To imprison them until the cruel King was disposed of.

And why was Sansa just thinking of this _now?!_ The old Sansa found the idea of death so egregious, it didn’t matter the person’s sins. She used to cry at Winterfell when her father had to execute someone. Someone who had raped or killed. Someone who abandoned his post at the Wall, and who committed who knows what crimes before then…

And tonight, she did it all over again. After her initial shock at seeing Cersei’s body, the dominant emotion within her heart was _relief._ It was only as these pesky thoughts entered her brain later that she felt anything close to remorse – and even then, it wasn’t remorse for Cersei, it was remorse for what she feared she was becoming.

It only intensified after learning of Cersei’s plot to kill her own father, Sansa’s husband. If weren’t for her company at the time she might have thrown her head back and laughed. But then Jaime kept speaking, mostly to Tyrion but not bothering to hide his meaning from Sansa. Jaime had told Tyrion of Cersei’s plan, and Tyrion chose not to tell Sansa or Tywin. But _why_? Tyrion hated his sister; would he really have withheld that knowledge to try to save her from Tywin’s wrath? Perhaps he would want to save his brother some sorrow, but would that outweigh his desire to protect his father and Sansa? Perhaps his father, but Sansa felt like Tyrion had genuine love for her, and surely, he’d know Cersei wouldn’t stop at Tywin… that Sansa would undoubtedly be next on her list.

And then Jaime’s other words – he didn’t think Cersei was suicidal, and despite effectively convincing the brothers she could have hidden it well, Sansa agreed with Jaime. Cersei was too selfish to be suicidal; she was too determined to see her enemies vanquished… but it was ultimately Tyrion himself who betrayed his own secret, not in anything he said, but in his eyes. The pain in his eyes was not proportionate to his _love_ for his sister, or even his sympathy for his brother. It was uncomfortable pain. Fearful pain. Sansa was convinced not only that Cersei had been murdered, but that she was sitting across from the culprit, though she knew not how he did it. And once again Sansa did not feel guilt, or anger, or remorse… she felt _proud_. She felt _victorious_. Just as Tywin’s act of kingslaying deepened her trust of him, Tyrion’s act of kinslaying deepened her bond with him. She had lost her entire family, but gained goodson, though truly he felt more like a brother – a brother who would kill for her. The maimed knight sitting beside her also felt like a brother, even as he wept into her bosom for the woman Sansa despised. And even _that_ did not make Sansa feel guilty, it made her feel vindicated. She hoped that wherever Cersei’s soul now lingered it could see her brother, her lover, seeking comfort in Sansa’s warm embrace. She hoped Cersei could hear the words she spoke to Tyrion – her murderer – before he left. Words of gratitude and compassion.

But that was then…

Now… now Sansa paced her room as if enough movement would release the shameful thoughts in some form of invisible energy. Perhaps the vileness of her heart would seep out as sweat through her pores…

Now she desperately wished she could un-learn what she’d learned from Jaime and Tyrion. For if Cersei _had_ killed herself, that meant the woman had still been capable of some emotion other than hate. Sansa could imagine there was still some shame or sadness in Cersei’s hard heart, and that would offer Sansa some assurance, wouldn’t it? That no matter how hardened her own heart became there would still be some trace of her true nature left.

She wanted to run to Tyrion now and beg him to tell her that it really was a suicide; that what she’d seen in his eyes wasn’t really there. Then she’d run to Sandor and make him tell her she was a silly little bird and recount every naïve thing she’d ever said or done in his presence. Yes, that’s what she’d do…

She hastily donned her plainest dress and yanked open the door, but she gasped at the sight of the man on the other side, hand hanging in the air as if he’d just been reaching for the knob. And it was neither of the men she wanted to see – one unnaturally short, one unnaturally tall. It was her husband… and the look on his face was one she’d never seen on him, until it transformed before her very eyes into one of suspicion, “Where are you going?” he asked sternly.

“I…” she thought to lie, to say she was going to find him, or going to pray for Cersei’s soul, or going to check on Jaime… anything but the truth. But she couldn’t lie. She wanted to confess every thought and fear. She wanted to confess things she’d never even done, crimes punishable by death, so Tywin would take her head and she could die before she became a monster. But she could not confess what she knew – or at least _suspected_ – of Tyrion. She would not condemn him to death when his action was most likely done to protect her.

“I…” she continued, knowing the truth, or at least part of it, would follow.

\---------------------------------------------------------

**Tywin**

Tywin was beyond tired, and it wasn’t from being awoken from his slumber prematurely. It wasn’t from spending intense hours giving orders to servants and guards; it wasn’t from all the thinking and planning… no, the source of Tywin’s exhaustion was the energy-sapping power of _guilt_. He went through the necessary motions mechanically – having ruled for so many decades his mouth could form the words to give commands without his brain putting much thought into the effort. He almost wished it required more concentration, for that would be a welcome distraction from these pesky thoughts, these inconvenient emotions. His only daughter was dead, likely because she couldn’t stand the idea of marrying Dickon Tarly and leaving the Red Keep, which had been her home for decades. Tywin wondered whether he should have told Cersei immediately of their plan to marry her to Lord Royce or send her to Dorne to live with Myrcella and the Martells. _Would she have found those options more agreeable? Would that have been enough to make her choose life over death?_

He wanted to believe it would, but he couldn’t. Even though he agreed with Sansa’s ideas, and hoped they would work, a large part of him was certain they wouldn’t. He’d seen his daughter go from inept to reckless to dangerous over these many months back in the capital. He’d seen firsthand her inability to summon compassion or rationale thought. She resorted to murder, which alone wouldn’t have troubled Tywin if it weren’t that she did so even as every member of her family told her that her intended victim was not a threat to them or their house.

Tywin Lannister had much to feel guilty over in regards his daughter’s fate, but in this moment, he felt most guilty over the absence of any grief in his heart. He was not getting any younger and dealing with his daughter had become far too taxing. What did it say of him as a father that he was glad to be relieved of this burden?

In that moment he needed someone who would understand… someone who would tell him he wasn’t a monster, someone who would give him absolution. And there was only one person who could give him what he needed and who would do it not out of fear or obedience to the Great Lion but would do it honestly for Tywin Lannister.

But when he opened his bedchamber door to seek that person, it was clear she was in need of her own comfort… comfort he did not have the energy to give.

“Where are you going?” he asked his young wife, who looked on the brink of hysteria.

“I… I… I need Sandor,” she blurted out.

He felt his jaw clench, “Why?”

Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, and for a moment he thought she’d be reckless enough to sprint around him to the hallway to seek out her large protector.

“I… I…” she sat down heavily in a chair and spoke into the surface of the table before her, “I’m a monster, Tywin. I don’t want to be a monster. I need to be around someone who thinks I’m good. I want to be a little bird, not a lioness, and not even a wolf…”

_Her words make no sense… unless…_

“Sansa, did you have something to do with Cersei’s death?”

She looked at him in shock – no evidence of deceit in her clear blue eyes as she answered, “No! But I was glad for it! I was relieved. And that makes me no better than her. I was glad when Joffrey died, when Littlefinger died, when the Kingsguard died… I was glad for all of it, and tonight I was glad for her death. I’m becoming just like her, Tywin! I’m becoming a _hateful_ woman. And I don’t want to be!”

Tywin sighed, sitting heavily on the end of their large bed. He was too damned tired for this. He began slowly and methodically removing clothing until he sat in naught but his smallclothes and socks. He got under the covers.

“Come to bed, wife.”

She looked up at him, confused, then horrified, “Is that why you wanted me as your wife? You saw in me that I could be ruthless and cruel?”

He sighed, “Ruthless, not cruel. Come to bed, I’m too tired to shout across the room to you.”

She hesitated but ultimately removed her dress and joined him under the covers, though kept a few feet between them. But that wouldn’t do. Tywin gave her no option for protest as he pulled her against him, her back to his chest.

He spoke into her hair, which smelled like lemons and air, “Most women are just kind. Some women are just ruthless. Very few are both. You are kind, Sansa, but the fact that you don’t mourn your enemies’ deaths shows you can be ruthless, but not cruel. Cruel is relishing in other’s suffering. You didn’t want Cersei to suffer, you wanted her gone, and you were right to.”

“But Tywin she was your—”

“It doesn’t matter. She tried to kill you, and it wasn’t an isolated incident brought on by profound grief, as I tried to convince myself. It was part of a pattern of cruelty.”

“But—”

“But nothing, wife. I chose you because you are a woman who can be both loved and feared. Loved by your people, feared by your enemies. Cersei never had the love of her people…”

Tywin was about to once again take responsibility for Cersei becoming that way, when a realization struck him. It was easy to blame Robert for turning Cersei into a bitter woman, even if it meant blaming himself for her marriage to Robert. But somehow, holding in his arms a woman who had previously confessed she wanted to be a beloved queen, a queen that brought her people peace and prosperity… something became glaringly clear, and in his sleepy state, Tywin voiced it without hesitation, “Cersei never wanted the love of her people. She wanted to be a queen for of the power, the glory. She wanted the dresses, the servants… wanted to be the most powerful person in the realm aside from the king… She wanted to be the envy of the people, not the savior of the people…”

Sansa’s head turned slightly, and he knew that she knew that Tywin was giving birth to this realization as he spoke.

“Even as a child Cersei wanted to wield power. Over her brothers, over the servants, over the other children who lived at Casterly Rock… I fear she inherited all of her father’s cruelty and none of her mother’s kindness.”

Sansa rolled over, now facing her husband with only a foot between them, she spoke in a whisper, “Are you truly cruel, Tywin?” Her question was pure curiosity, absent any judgment or sarcasm.

He shook his head, “I don’t know.”

She was quiet for a moment, and Tywin felt himself begin to doze, until her voice pulled him back into consciousness, “I don’t think you are. I think you _can_ be; I think you can do things, order things, that some others cannot. But I don’t think you enjoy it. Perhaps that is the real definition of cruelty, as you said. It is not the action itself; it is whether you enjoy it. Joffrey enjoyed it. Cersei enjoyed it. Ser Meryn and Ser Boros enjoyed it. Ser Gregor enjoys it. I’ve heard the Boltons and Freys enjoy it… I don’t think you enjoy it, Tywin.”

The part of him that knew how helpful his reputation for cruelty had been over the years wanted to deny it. But he was too tired, and perhaps he wanted there to be one person who knew the real Tywin Lannister. So he answered honestly, “I don’t enjoy it.”

On the verge of sleep he remembered what he sought when coming to his wife, and knew he’d have no real peace until he had voiced it, “Part of me is relieved she is gone. Does that make _me_ a monster?”

Sansa stared into his eyes, and after a few agonizing moments she shook her head, slowly but assuredly. This young woman had an uncanny knack for seeing a person’s true nature. She saw the goodness in both his sons and saw the evil in Joffrey and Cersei. She saw the strange honor in Sandor Clegane. She saw the warmth in his sister Genna, and the honesty in his brother Kevan. She saw the lies behind Littlefinger’s sweet words. She saw the loyalty behind Lord Royce’s stern exterior. She saw the innocence in young Tommen, even though he looked so much like his older brother. So if she saw something good in Tywin, he knew it was there. Joanna had seen it, too, but Tywin now knew his first wife made it bigger than it was. She latched onto that part of him and loved it, while turning a blind eye to the darker parts of him. Tywin suspected his second wife saw all of it, and accepted all of it, and might someday love all of it... that little seed of goodness, along with the well established and quite visible stems and roots of callousness. She wouldn’t try to root out the parts of him that she knew now protected her, the parts of him that had turned around the fate of his family when he was no older than she is now. The part of him that had killed entire families, that had killed kings… She would embrace it, but she’d also embrace that little part of him that few ever saw. And in return, it was only fair that he should embrace all of her – the majority of her that was sweet and kind needed to be adored not just by others but by him. And the smaller part of her that relished in the utter ruin of her enemies must be respected as well, not just by him but by others. Otherwise guilt would eat through her tender heart.

He pulled her close, tucking her head under his chin, “You seem to forget a true lioness isn’t just deadly, she’s also the mother to her cubs, to her pride’s cubs. She doesn’t kill for sport; she kills to feed and protect her pride. And when she kills the hyenas circling her den, she doesn’t shed a tear for them.”

She yawned into his chest, “What about the lion?”

He snorted, “The lion is an arrogant creature. He does kill and fight for sport, or rather for his ego. But he also kills to protect, and Gods help the beast who tries to steal or harm his lioness… but the lion never uses his claws or fangs on her; for her and her alone he is…”

She nuzzled into his chest hair, “a kitten?” she guessed.

Tywin chuckled, “I wouldn’t go that far…”


	32. Aftermath

**Sandor**

When Sandor told the little bird to wrap the Old Lion around her pretty little fingers, he didn’t expect she’d be so efficient and effective, but only a few weeks after she told Sandor of her planned betrothal to Tywin Lannister, her two greatest tormentors were dead – Cersei and Joffrey – along with the man who betrayed Sansa’s father and looked at Sansa in a way that made even Sandor’s calloused skin crawl – Petyr Baelish.

Of course, the Old Lion took credit for none of these events – everyone believed Joffrey was poisoned by a jealous and deranged Littlefinger and that Cersei jumped to her death when grief consumed her. But Sandor was no fool. He knew Cersei Lannister since they were children – he just a few years younger than her and living at Casterly Rock since before he grew his first underarm hair. When Sandor was a young man he became Cersei’s shield – her loving father “gifted” his daughter the second most frightening and capable fighter in the realm to be her guard. And of course, when that woman gifted Sandor to her own son, Sandor continued to be around Cersei. Decades spent in the woman’s company taught him two things: 1) Cersei Lannister was a cold-hearted bitch, and was probably born that way, and 2) Cersei Lannister would _never_ decide to leave this world early. She was simply too determined to create misery – misery for others, misery for herself. Of course she would blame others for her woes – her brother Tyrion for killing her mother to enter the world, Rhaegar Targaryen for not returning her affection, Robert Baratheon for being a disgusting excuse for a husband, her brother Jaime for being captured by the Starks, and the little bird for… well, for existing, and perhaps for sharing the blood of Lyanna Stark – the woman coveted by both Rhaegar and Robert…

She could blame others all she wanted but Sandor knew for years that she was her own worst enemy. Cersei Lannister fed off of other’s unhappiness like a leach and savored her own unhappiness because it gave her an excuse to drink and fuck herself senseless. Misery could not have caused Cersei Lannister to throw herself from a balcony, because misery was Cersei Lannister’s best friend and constant companion. Like anger was to Sandor. Sandor would never be so angry that he would kill himself, because anger is what gave his life purpose. Or at least, what used to give his life purpose. Now his purpose was in protecting the one person in King’s Landing that wasn’t a steaming heap of manure. The person he’d watched over for years, first in secret, and limited to what he could do or say without losing his head, but now in an official capacity.

As Sandor stood sentry in the Tower of the Hand for hours on end, he contemplated all this. He wondered how the Old Lion did it – poisoned Joffrey, pinned it on Littlefinger, and later killed Cersei. Sandor couldn’t imagine Tywin himself throwing her from the balcony. However despicable Cersei had become, she was still his daughter. Nor could Sandor imagine Jaime doing the deed – he was pathetically and disgustingly in love with his sister, though Sandor would never know why. Cersei’s beauty – which was admittedly exceptional – was still not enough to compensate for her shite personality. Sandor mused that fucking a snowbank might be more enjoyable than fucking Cersei’s frozen cunt. Despite being a child of the North, Sansa Stark – or rather, Sansa _Lannister_ – had more warmth in her ice blue eyes than Cersei had in her entire mind, body, and soul.

Of course, it’s possible Tywin had Cersei’s guards do the deed, but he doubted the man would trust retainers to perform an act of kinslaying on his behalf – no matter how loyal the men were. That left the Imp. He had no love for his sister – but would he kill her for his father? No, but perhaps he’d kill her for Sansa. Perhaps, like Sandor, Tyrion was angry and worried after Cersei and Lancel’s attempt to kill Sansa and decided to take matters into his own hands.

There was only one other possibility, and Sandor shuddered to consider it. Could Sansa have killed Cersei? But how would she sneak out of the Tower of the Hand? How would Tywin, for that matter? And how would any of them sneak into Cersei’s quarters which were guarded day and night?

Sandor shook his head, earning a curious glance from Ser Andre. He didn’t know who did it or how, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Cersei was murdered. He didn’t care, truly. No part of him wanted to avenge his former charge, his _queen…_ she deserved what she got. Just as Joffrey and Littlefinger did, along with the blasted Kingsguard. Six knights, one lord, one king, and one queen. Nine people who had hurt the little bird one way or another were now dead, and it all happened since Tywin Lannister took Sansa under his protection, which he did because of Sandor’s appeal on her behalf. Sandor found himself smiling involuntarily, again earning Andre’s glare to which he responded, “Fuck off, Brax.”

\------------------------------------------------

**Tyrion**

Tyrion didn’t have any regrets when he pushed his sister from her balcony. He had no true regrets afterwards, even when Jaime was sobbing uncontrollably. He had no regrets when he went to bed that night or when he awoke the next morning. But as he took his turn standing vigil beside Cersei’s body in the Great Sept, he had regrets. Not because of his sister – but because of his nephew. Young Tommen was distraught by his mother’s death. Here Tommen stood, a boy king trying to look brave, but his red-rimmed eyes told a different story. Occasionally tears would streak down his chubby cheeks, bringing a fresh wave of guilt to Tyrion.

Tyrion was surprised by the extent of Tommen’s grief. As far as Tyrion knew, Cersei was never as attached to her younger son as she was to Joffrey. She loved him of course, but she was rather neglectful – leaving him in the care of servants and his older sister Myrcella more often than not, while she spent time with Joffrey – fancying herself a strong influence on the boy. Tyrion fought not to snigger out loud at that thought – Cersei was an influence, alright. She taught Joffrey to be cruel and selfish. She taught him that the entire world was at his fingertips, he need only reach out and grasp it. The boy had no sense of _earning_ his position and title. Tommen at least had some sense of responsibility, though the boy was far too soft. He would always need to surround himself with strong councilors and protectors who cared enough about the boy to not betray him and to not seek to overthrow him. That meant family – Jaime, Tyrion, Tywin, Kevan, Genna, and Sansa. The Tyrells could be trusted to a point – as long as their interests aligned with Lannister interests.

It was late afternoon and Sansa and Jaime entered the Sept. Ser Andre and the Hound stayed back along the far wall. Jaime looked to Tommen and Tyrion, “Nephew, brother, we’re here to relieve you.”

Tyrion nodded – he was quite hungry and in need of some strong wine, but Tommen shook his head defiantly, “No. I don’t want to leave mother.”

Jaime looked down at his feet, but Sansa approached Tommen with open arms. The boy didn’t hesitate to enter her embrace. As Sansa was tall for a woman and Tommen short for a young man, he was just the right height to rest his face against her shoulder as she stroked his hair. It was more maternal than anything Tyrion had ever seen Cersei do, and Sansa did it so naturally – and to the son of the woman who tried to kill her, no less.

“Shh, it’s alright your grace.”

“Don’t call me that,” Tommen said obstinately.

“Alright, Tommen. It’s alright. You’ve had a rather rough time, haven’t you? It wasn’t too long ago you lost your father, then your dear uncle was a captured, then you lose your brother, and now your mother. It’s okay to be so distraught. Even a king is allowed to mourn those he loves.”

“Grandfather says I’m supposed to be strong. That real men don’t show their emotions, certainly not their tears.”

“Your grandfather is wise, Tommen, but perhaps he forgets that you’re still young. You’ve had so much thrust on you, and you’re still a child even if the laws say you’re a man grown.”

“But you’re not much older than me, Sansa! And you’re so mature and so strong. I’ve never seen you cry, and you’re a woman!”

“I cry, Tommen.”

“But not in public!”

“You’re not in public, now. You’re with your family. It’s different. And you’ve lost your mother; no one will think you weak for crying over that!”

“You didn’t cry when you lost your mother.”

The boy’s words, though spoken innocently, made Sansa flinch. Tyrion saw it and Jaime saw it, as they exchanged a worried glance.

“You’re right. I did not cry, but I wish I had. She deserved my tears,” Sansa was staring off into the distance, a vacant look in her eyes, “I should have cried for her. I should have let everyone seen that a great lady had died. I should have cried for her and for all my brothers. But I was afraid to…”

Tommen nodded sympathetically, “I know, Sansa. Because of _Joffrey.”_

She nodded, “Fear and weakness is what had me hold back my tears. It wasn’t strength or courage. I was a coward, and my family didn’t deserve that. So you see, Tommen, sometimes it takes more strength to show your emotions than to hide them. And I know that women happen to like it when a man is at ease with her enough to let her see his emotions, even his tears.”

Tommen’s eyes brightened, “Really?”

“Mmhmm… and, can you keep a secret Tommen?”

The boy nodded vigorously, clearly honored to be at the receiving end of Lady Sansa’s secret. She cupped her hands around his ear and whispered to him. Though Tyrion couldn’t hear her words, Tommen’s eyes went wide with shock and he immediately turned to look in the direction of Sansa’s guards standing at the far end of the Sept near the door.

Sansa pulled his hands, “Shh… secret, remember?”

He smiled conspiratorially and nodded.

“Now why don’t you take your uncle Tyrion to have an early supper. I can hear the man’s stomach growling from here. Then get some rest so you can come see your mother again tomorrow morning.”

Tommen stood a bit taller as he turned to Tyrion, “Come uncle, will you sup with me in my chambers?”

“Of course, I’d be delighted to, nephew,” As Tyrion followed Tommen he turned and gave Sansa a brief bow.

\-------------------------------------

**Jaime**

Jaime was glad he and Sansa thought to dine before their vigil, for it was well past supper time when Tywin and Genna came to relieve them. Genna greeted both Jaime and Sansa with warm hugs while Tywin offered only a curt nod.

“My lady,” his father said.

“My lord,” Sansa responded, “We appreciate you coming to relieve us, but I fear you need your rest much more than I do – busy as you are every day. I will gladly stay here with Lady Genna or Ser Jaime, if you’d permit me.”

Tywin frowned, “Your offer is appreciated but unnecessary.”

Genna, who had no qualms about defying her older brother even in front of witnesses, waved a hand, “How about both of you go get some rest, leave me and my second favorite nephew here to stand vigil. He was a Kingsguard, he can stand for a few more hours, certainly. And you two are newlyweds – ought to be making some cubs.”

Sansa blushed at Genna’s bluntness. For a long moment Jaime thought his father would refuse, but he actually nodded and extended an arm to his young wife. His father did look quite tired. Jaime had noticed this since Tommen’s coronation. Tywin was effectively ruling the kingdom, with the added burden of trying to pass along his knowledge to Tommen. Though Tommen was much more receptive than Joffrey ever was, the boy clearly did not have a mind for politics. Jaime felt no small amount of shame that neither of his sons – though he’d really never thought of them in those terms – seemed to inherit the attributes that made a worthy king. Jaime himself could not help the boy in that domain. He could train him in the art of warfare and battle strategy, but he knew nothing of ruling a kingdom or even a castle. Standing behind King Robert (or more often, his Hand) during court was mind-numbing for Jaime. If not for the unavoidable innocent casualties of war, Jaime would be happy for war to be never-ending. Then again, that was before he lost his sword hand. Now he was just another man, the Kingslayer, the man without honor. Was it even possible for him to have some type of role in his family’s future? He wasn’t certain. Things had happened so quickly since he’d been back – first he was thrust into the animosity between Cersei, Joffrey, and Sansa. He wrestled with his own choice of whether to marry Sansa and claim the Rock or not. Then Joffrey died, then Tommen was crowned, then his father and Sansa married, then Cersei died… It was the most eventful two months of his entire life and left him little time for personal reflection. As he did just that now, he thought it was time he had a talk with his father to find out what his place would be. He had failed Cersei and Joffrey, but he would not fail Tommen and Myrcella, father, Tyrion and Sansa.

\---------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

Sansa expected her husband to collapse into bed as soon as they entered their bedchamber – so weary did he look – so she was surprised when he removed his doublet and boots and sat in a chair in front of the hearth. A small fire was lit, as there was now a chill in the air. By day the autumn sun warmed the Keep, but at night it was cool and drafty. Unlike Winterfell, buildings this far south were not built to insulate from the cold. Instead they were built with many windows and breezeways to allow airflow to help cool the rooms during summer. When winters came, they relied on hearths, braziers, and heavy blankets for warmth. An ache in Sansa’s belly made her aware of how much she missed her northern home, but she did not allow herself to dwell on it. Instead she looked at her husband, who looked deeply troubled and tired.

Sighing, she stood before Tywin’s chair, “Husband, will you kindly unlace me? I don’t wish to summon a maid.”

He grunted affirmatively and loosened the laces of her dress, then did the same to the bodice beneath it.

“Thank you,” she moved to step toward the screen, but Tywin caught her wrist and held it.

He looked up at her hesitantly, as if his desire for his wife was battling his desire for sleep. Eventually the latter one out, and he dropped her wrist in a rather defeated fashion.

Sansa considered stepping behind her screen and changing into her sleeping gown but decided against it. Her husband needed comfort. She knew not precisely what was troubling him – Cersei’s death, his guilt over his reaction to Cersei’s death, or the constant stress related to running the kingdom. Whatever it was, she wanted to help alleviate it, even if just for an hour.

Summoning some boldness, she stepped back in front of Tywin, this time facing him. He looked up at her, a bit confused at first, then intrigued as she lowered her dress to pool on the floor. Next she lowered her underskirt, then tugged her loosened bodice up and over her shoulders. As she was about to pull off her smallclothes Tywin leaned forward and gently turned her to face away from him. In their few previous encounters, Sansa knew he enjoyed seeing the back of her as much as the front of her. He would often trace his hand down the long lines of her back, pulling her hair to one side to reveal her skin to him, which he would kiss hungrily. At night they often fell asleep pressed together, her back to his front, and she would often wake at some point on the night and feel his hardness against her rump.

Though they’d only ever coupled facing each other, it seemed tonight he had something else in mind, as he took over the task of peeling away the last bit of her clothing, a low growl escaping his throat at the sight of her, naked as her name day, standing before him. She felt more exposed this way, not being able to see his face – knowing he was taking in all of her while she could see none of him. Just as she thought she couldn’t take another second of the scrutiny, his warm hands glided from her ribs down to her hips, and he leaned forward to plant a kiss on the small of her back, before whispering against her skin, “Perfection.” She heard herself whimper at the feeling of his breath on her newly exposed skin. For several minutes he planted kisses over the expanse of her back, hips, and even her backside. It was exhilarating to not know where his lips would land next, and she twitched a few times when he found a particularly sensitive area of skin.

Having covered every inch of skin he could reach, Tywin pulled her down, so she sat in his lap, still facing away from him. Now he could reach her upper back, shoulders, and neck which his lips, while his hands traveled around to stroke her belly and breasts. His deft lips and fingers sent waves of desire through her body, and she blushed when she realized she was rolling her hips against his groin, instinctively seeking contact. Her cheeks burned as she wondered whether her wetness would stain his breeches, but he clearly didn’t share her concern as he pressed himself up against her, his clothed erection rubbing against her in a delightfully torturous way.

Once lust was clouding her mind, evicting all semblance of rational thought, Tywin pulled her back, so she rested against his long chest. He bade her to put her feet up on the chair on either side of his thighs, and she was too far gone to protest the very unladylike position this put her in. Tywin supported her with one hand around her waist while the other sought her juncture, eliciting a gasp from her as he plunged a finger into her channel without delay. He groaned once again, this time into her neck, which he continued to kiss and suckle as his finger worked her into heavenly oblivion.

She felt herself grinding shamelessly against his hand, which stroked her both inside and out in this position. His left arm now tightened around her as that hand sought her breasts, stroking, kneading, and tugging at each in turn until Sansa screamed her climax into the air. Tywin pressed his finger even further into her and she could feel its presence each time her muscles contracted. The sensation only made her want more, but she was too boneless to do anything about it.

Thankfully, her husband knew just what she needed, as she felt him fumbling with the laces of his breeches with his left hand. When his cock was finally free Sansa felt it press against her entrance. “Take what you want, wife,” Tywin whispered into her ear, and it was all the invitation she needed to guide him into her. The angle was different from what Sansa was accustomed to, and rather enjoyable, but she struggled to find a rhythm that was enough for her. After some experimentation, she found it much more pleasurable to lean forward instead of back, like one does when riding a horse at a fast pace. Bracing her hands on Tywin’s knees, she found a rhythm that seemed to suit both of them, as her husband was soon panting and grunting behind her while bucking his hips in time with her thrusts.

As her pleasure was intensifying, she felt Tywin shift behind her, leaning forward so he could reach around and tease her nub. A few seconds of this new friction and Sansa was coming undone, screaming Tywin’s name for the second time this night. Just as she was coming down from her peak he was reaching his, pressing his lips into her shoulder blade and grunting as pleasure pulsed through him. It was such a heady feeling for Sansa to bring the Great Lion to his knees – metaphorically and sometimes literally. He was a man so in control of his body and emotions, that to hear and see him at the height of his ecstasy filled Sansa with a smug pride.

But tonight there was another emotion that entered her mind just as all other thoughts vacated it. It was a deep and primal longing that soon his seed would take root and there would indeed be little lion cubs on the way.


	33. Moving Forward

**Tywin**

There was much to enjoy about being a married man once again, as his little wife seemed intent to prove to him night after night. However one thing was made decidedly more difficult: getting out of bed in the morning. Tywin had never been one to linger in bed delaying the start of his day but having a woman’s slender limbs draped over him made him want to be a lazy lion.

With a frustrated sigh he finally pulled himself out of bed to start another long day. He was doing the job of a king, but without a capable Hand. Tommen meant well, but the boy was too naïve to be trusted with any significant decisions just yet. Furthermore, despite his alliance with the Tyrells, he didn’t fully trust them not to take advantage of Tommen’s innocence. He needed to be sure the boy knew right from wrong so that if his soon-to-be-wife Margaery tried steering him in the wrong direction, he’d realize it. Tywin dressed himself, something he’d only started doing again now that he was married. He didn’t want anyone – including his trusted steward Willem – seeing Sansa in bed in the morning. Tywin was a greedy man, and he wanted that view all to himself – her long, mussed hair sometimes the only thing that covered any of her naked skin, as his northern wolf tended to get warm at night and kick off the blankets.

Every morning since their wedding Tywin had been torn between the desire to wake her so he could hear her sweet voice or let her sleep so he could spend a few minutes staring at her. In slumber her face was carefree and youthful in a way it never was when she was awake. Tywin still cursed Joffrey for doing everything in his power to rob the young woman of her joy, but then he wondered if she would be different in other ways had she not endured what she had. Would she be a silly little girl, naïve to the ways of the world? Would she lack the ruthless streak that Tywin had come to respect so much? Would she even be able to look Tywin in the eyes? Though it pained him to admit it, he found it unlikely that the steel-spined young woman sleeping in his bed would even exist if not for Joffrey’s torments.

Sighing, Tywin broke his fast in an adjoining room. Just as he was finishing his meal his wife walked in, wearing a silk robe Tywin gifted her after their wedding. Her copper hair laying against the gold fabric made for a lovely sight. Tywin liked her best this way – messy hair and rosy cheeked from sleeping or _other_ bedroom activities.

“Wife,” he greeted her, betraying none of the desire building within him.

“Husband,” she smiled warmly, “Shall I join you in your solar today after I bathe and dress? I feel I haven’t been much of a help lately, and I’m sure you could use some assistance.”

Tywin grasped her hips and pulled her to stand in front of him, “I’d rather you join me just like this.”

She grinned, “I think the guards would talk…”

“Let them,” he mumbled into the valley between her breasts. His mind was already conjuring the numerous ways he’d like to have her in his solar – spread out on his desk, bent over his desk, pressed up against the cool glass of the window for all to see, and – most mischievously – on her knees under his desk, pleasuring him while he had to listen to the droning of some bumptious lord or another. But in truth, he did need assistance and missed her constant presence while he worked. With a sigh he sat back in his chair, “When you’re ready, join me. I could indeed use all the help I can get.”

With that he stood, kissed his young wife on the crown of her head, and set about his day. It was a sennight after Cersei’s funeral and things had settled down enough for him to begin looking forward. Winter was indeed coming – the days were getting shorter, the nights longer and cooler, but the recent war had disrupted the usual farming activities and strained the food supplies, while leaving too many mouths to feed in the form of unskilled widows and orphaned children. There were many people looking for work, and there were many roles to be filled, but the war had left things in disarray, and it took time to get people settled back into normal routines, particularly when they were suspicious of any help offered by the Crown, thanks once again to Joffrey’s cruelty and ineptitude.

Tywin was deep in thought on this subject when his wife arrived, dressed in a light gray dress that contrasted beautifully against her vivid hair. Tywin spoke to Sansa about the monumental dilemma he faced in getting the smallfolk returned to productive labor, restocking the food supplies, and refilling the Crown’s coffers without over-taxing the population.

Sansa was pondering his problem, but not adding anything to the conversation. Soon it was time for Tywin to leave to hold court alongside Tommen, and he was surprised when Sansa paused him before he left, “My lord, would you allow me to put together a plan to address the labor and food issues?”

Tywin stared at her for several moments, “I suppose I would welcome your recommendations…”

She nodded, “I’ll need to appraise the situation more fully, but I think I should have a plan within five days. Is that acceptable?”

He nodded slowly.

“Good. Until then, don’t worry yourself about this. Deal with the countless other issues of the realm. If in five days you’re not satisfied with my proposal than you can resume worrying,” with a curtsy she was gone from his solar, her guards seamlessly falling in line behind her.

\----------------------------------------------------------

**Tyrion**

“Lady Sansa, or should I say ­ _goodmother –_ to what do I owe the pleasure?” Tyrion smiled warmly at one of the few people he didn’t mind interrupting his day.

“I have some questions, Lord Tyrion, and I suspect you are the man with the answers.”

“I’m certain I have _answers_ , but not sure they’re the right ones,” Tyrion chuckled, “Please, what is on your mind?”

She had a look of determination on her face, and got right to the point, “If I were a man with certain skills or knowledge… let’s say I know all there is to know about forestry, or raising sheep, or… well, you get the idea… but I’m unemployed – how would I go about finding suitable employment?”

Tyrion frowned, “I suppose you’d go around to all the local businesses in that trade and inquire about available positions…”

Sansa pressed a finger to her lips, “That’s what I feared. And likewise – if someone who owns a logging company, for instance, needs to hire experienced workers, where would he find them?”

Tyrion shrugged, “Word of mouth mainly – he’d tell his neighbors, his trading partners, his family and friends, and eventually word would get to a qualified person who would come and inquire in person.”

“I see. I’d also like to understand your laws around bartering. In the North, bartering is quite common, but I understand here it is frowned upon because it’s a way to avoid paying income taxes. Is this true?”

“You’re well-informed. Indeed bartering is considered a punishable offense. It’s not the worst crime one can commit, and the City Watch doesn’t bother arresting minor offenders – a woman who trades a knitted blanket for some chickens, for instance – but they actively penalize more serious offenders – such as a farmer who wants to trade a significant portion of his wheat harvest to another farmer in return for a sizeable delivery of cattle corn.”

“In Winterfell we had organized swap meets every harvest, where local farmers could bring some of their yield to trade with others. Do you have anything like that in the capital?”

Tyrion shook his head, “Nothing that formal. Were these _swap meets_ taxed?”

“No, but I suppose you could charge a fee to participate – for the right to barter. Most would gladly pay it since they can get all their trading done in one day instead of having to travel to multiple locations.”

“Indeed. Clever idea, my lady.”

“My final question is about the poorhouses and orphanages. What type of education or trade programs are offered there?”

“I’m sorry?”

Sansa gave him a look that made him feel ashamed. He cleared his throat, “Umm, I’m not sure they have any.”

“But don’t employers and lords recruit workers from these institutions?”

“Yes, for menial labor or, ehm… certain professions of ill-repute.”

Sansa blushed, “I see. Well, I only have one more question. When do you plan of having your next census?”

“Umm… I believe the last one was only three years ago. They’re done every five years.”

“But Tyrion, we’ve just finished a war, the composition of the kingdoms has been much changed!” She shook her head in disappointment, “Who is responsible for overseeing the census?”

“I believe that would be the Commander of the Army.”

“Why?”

“Because the census primarily serves to understand the number of able-bodied men fit to bear arms in the event of a war.”

“But doesn’t it capture information on women, children, the old and infirm, as well?”

Tyrion teetered his hand back and forth, “It does, but that isn’t the primary motive so I’m not sure how accurate those figures would be.”

Sansa rubbed her forehead, “So even before the war started, no one knew exactly how many men, women, and children resided in the Crownlands, much less the other kingdoms – is that what you’re telling me?”

“Well when you put it _that_ way, I suppose it sounds rather…”

“Incompetent?”

Tyrion forced himself to look ashamed – not hard to do in that moment.

“Alright,” Sansa sighed with determination, “The good thing about starting at the bottom is that there is only one way to go!”

With a swirl of skirts his goodmother was gone, leaving Tyrion to wonder what she had up her sleeve.

\-------------------------------------------------

**Jaime**

Much to Jaime’s disappointment, there was only one person willing to spar with the one-handed knight, not out of fear of Jaime, but out of fear of what would happen if they accidentally hurt or maimed Tywin Lannister’s son. So it became a habit for Jaime and the Hound to head to a deserted section of the keep every afternoon, or whenever Clegane’s shift allowed it.

Though Brienne had been almost as capable a sparring partner as Clegane, she was less patronizing, and Jaime found himself missing her presence. Unfortunately, she did not feel at ease in the capital, and moreover was determined to find and protect Arya Stark – wherever the girl may be – a cause which Jaime couldn’t dispute.

Jaime’s blunted sword dropped to the dirt for the tenth time that afternoon. It took much effort not to wallow in self-pity. He and Clegane used to be so evenly matched they could train together for hours on end without either coming away with a clear victory. Though Clegane was nimble for his size, he could never match Jaime’s light-footedness. Jaime, being a few inches shorter, had a reach disadvantage, but wouldn’t tire as quickly as the Hound. And what Clegane had in brute strength Jaime compensated for in speed. When the two men sparred, they used to draw a crowd of onlookers, to Jaime’s immense pleasure and Clegane’s mild displeasure.

They were also evenly matched when it came to repartee. Both men could give as well as they got, and neither threw his sword down in frustration when the other’s ripostes hit a little too close to home.

So it was surprising to Jaime that Clegane seemed fairly tame during their practices. He didn’t go easy on Jaime – that wasn’t his style – but nor did he go out of way to embarrass him. Something about the man seemed different since Jaime returned to King’s Landing, and Jaime thought back to when his father told him that the Hound was the one who alerted Tywin to the extent of Joffrey’s depravity toward Sansa.

After the fourth practice together Jaime voiced his observation, “Guarding a lady is making you soft. You’ve only insulted me twice today.”

Clegane grunted, “Too easy a target. Always preferred a fair fight.”

“Hah! Now that’s more like it. But while we’re on the topic… how do you like your new job, anyway?”

“Standing in the hall all day trying not to die of boredom? It’s wonderful.”

“That was always your job. I meant your new _charge_.”

“Prettier than the old one.”

“Hah! That’s an understatement.”

With a clang Jaime was unsworded again.

Clegane grumbled, “Best not talk so much, Kingslayer. Clearly you can’t do two things at one.”

“Now there’s the angry old dog I missed so much during my captivity.”

“Bet you did… now pick up your sword.”

Jaime complied, “I’m being serious. Those Northerners are so uptight. Never crack a smile, never tell a joke… you’d think living in such a bleak place one would develop a sense of humor as a survival mechanism to ward off insanity, if nothing else.”

“Ever consider it was your company?”

“What? Me? Everyone knows I’m the life of the party!”

“No, that’s your brother.”

“Ouch… but I can’t argue that. How someone so small can drink so much should be studied by the maesters in the Citadel.”

Another clang, and Jaime’s sword fell to the earth once more. Clegane rolled his eyes, clearly wishing for more of a challenge.

“I must say, after my time in captivity with the serious Northerners, and particularly the dour Young Wolf, I was quite surprised to find Lady Sansa has such a sharp wit. Believe it or not, I think her humor had my father crack a smile a few times.”

“Aye, it’s her humor he likes,” there was a trace of bitterness in Clegane’s tone.

“Well, among other things, of course. I certainly can’t deny the woman has _many_ fine attributes.”

Clegane’s next blow was decidedly more powerful than his previous ones, reverberating pain up Jaime’s left arm, “Easy, Hound… you sure take your job seriously, don’t you?”

“Girl’s had enough men salivating over her _attributes_ … doesn’t need to add you to the list.”

“Oh on the contrary, Lady Sansa is quite fond of me. A bit like a sister, even though she now is legally my mother, and was almost my wife…”

If they weren’t fighting with blunted swords the Hound’s next thrust might have taken a chunk out of Jaime’s hip. As it were, he’d have a rather angry bruise, but it was worth it to confirm his suspicion, “Easy! I meant no disrespect to your _charge._ In fact I feel I’m overdue in thanking you. I’ve come to understand it was you who brought Lady Sansa’s _treatment_ to my father’s attention.”

“Aye, what of it? And you can keep your _thanks_ … I didn’t do it for _your_ gratitude.”

“Then why did you do it?”

The Hound threw down his sword and went to retrieve his wineskin, “Is this a training session or a fucking garden party?”

“Forgive my curiosity, Hound, but I’ve known you a long time, and you know how to keep your mouth shut. You kept your mouth shut about Robert’s dalliances, and… other things…”

“Like you fucking your sister? Aye, I know my place.”

“So why was it _your place_ to interfere on Lady Sansa’s behalf?”

The Hound groaned and took a deep swig from his wineskin, “Robert and Cersei deserved each other. The lit… Lady Sansa didn’t deserve your son.”

Jaime lowered his head; he was unaccustomed to acknowledging his relationship with Cersei or his siring of Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen with anyone other than Tyrion. “You’re right, she didn’t. And whether you want my gratitude or not, you have it. So I’ll return the favor with a bit of advice – best do a better job of keeping your eyes to yourself. I’ve only seen you in Sansa’s presence a few times, but it’s plain as day what you think of her…”

Clegane waved a large hand, “She’s my charge, I’m supposed to keep my eyes on her.”

“Fair enough. You needn’t admit it, Gods know I can sympathize with being unable or unwilling to voice my feelings for… _someone_. But I hope you’ll still heed my advice. My father is a protective and possessive man. He values you, Clegane. And he owes you for saving his wife on more than one occasion… but if you think he’ll allow you sniffing at his wife’s skirts, you’ll find out that there are sharp fangs to go along with our Lannister roar.”

Clegane rolled his eyes, “You think I don’t know that? I’ve seen what happens to men, Hells, to entire _families_ that defy your father. I may have only half a face, but I’ve got a whole brain. Save your advice for someone who needs it, Kingslayer.”

With that the man threw down his sword and shield and stomped off, leaving a one-handed Jaime to awkwardly tote two swords and two shields back to the training yard. _So much for trying to help a guy._

Jaime proceeded to the bathhouse, thankful for the warm water to soak his aching body. His advice for the Hound had not been well-received, and Jaime would have a few bruises to show for his good intentions. Beyond that, he sometimes felt inexplicable pain in his right hand – the hand that wasn’t there. He vaguely remembered hearing amputees complain of similar symptoms but being so _whole_ at the time he never paid much attention to their complaints. It seemed to afflict him most after training, and Jaime pondered it might be because, while training, he frequently found himself trying to use the limb that wasn’t there. Perhaps doing that for two hours straight led his mind to believe his hand had magically grown back. Now Jaime could only lay in the tub, rubbing the parts of his body that _were_ there and had been battered, wishing he could do the same to his once-great sword hand. With a sigh he rose to dress, not wanting to be late for his private supper with father and Sansa.

He arrived just as the meal was being brought in by servants. The aromas immediately reminded him that he hadn’t eaten anything since early that morning. He took the seat to father’s left, across from Sansa, who looked lovely as always in a light blue dress. She smiled warmly at Jaime, and he briefly wondered if she smiled at the Hound the same way. If she did, it was no wonder the man was smitten.

Jaime sat down and practically salivated as servants piled his plate with a small game hen roasted to perfection, a heaping spoonful of glazed peas, and a pile of mashed turnips. Everything was then doused with a white gravy of tiny pearl onions.

As a forkful was about to enter his mouth his father’s rich voice stopped him, “How goes your training, Jaime?”

“Eh, well, thank you,” Jaime quickly snuck the food into his mouth.

“Why do you not train in the yard with the others?”

Jaime felt his cheeks heat. Wasn’t his father too busy to keep track of who trained in the yard, and who did not? He cleared his throat, “I’d need to spar with a ten-year-old squire to find someone on my level.”

“The Hound is hardly a ten-year-old squire…”

At those words Sansa’s eyes darted to her husband, but she did not speak.

Jaime nodded, “That he is not, but few are willing to risk injuring the Great Lion’s son.”

Tywin nodded, “So, how are you faring?”

Jaime felt his frustration build. He’d barely begun training again, and his father was already expecting him to have made _progress._

“Well, imagine a young lad who’s never held a sword, doing so for the first time. The progress he’d have made after a few training sessions is about where I am,” Jaime took a long sip of Arbor Gold.

“Hmpf. You certainly did not forget your footwork.”

“No… but all my footwork now needs to be reversed.”

His father was clearly unsympathetic, and Sansa’s eyes moved awkwardly between the two men. Jaime could tell she was debating whether to join the conversation just before she spoke, “At three and ten my brother Robb broke his right arm and it was put in a sling. It was rather funny at first – he could not write with his left hand, and if he were to try to eat these peas, for instance, more would roll off the spoon than make it to his mouth. And those were just the activities that require one hand. He was also at quite the disadvantage because he could not perform any two-handed activities. He couldn’t lace his own boots or clothing, couldn’t bathe himself, and certainly couldn’t fire a bow or swing a sword. In a fit of frustration Robb once explained to me it wasn’t just that his left hand was uncooperative, but that his right hand still _wanted_ to do everything. It took eight weeks for his arm to fully heal, and he was only marginally better at using his left hand by the end of that period.”

Tywin was staring at her with an unreadable expression, “Interesting story, wife. However Ser Jaime is not a boy of three and ten, he is a grown man.

“Oh indeed, my lord,” she answered innocently enough, “and in that regard he has it much worse than did Robb. Jaime has spent nearly forty years doing most things with his right hand while his left took more of a supporting role. He has to not just _learn_ how to properly use his left hand and arm but _unlearn_ how to use his right hand and arm.”

Tywin’s cheeked reddened, and Jaime felt it only proper to intervene before he could scold his sweet wife, “You’ve hit the nail on the head, Lady Sansa. In fact, so obstinate is my right arm that by the time my training is finished, that hand aches, even though there is no hand there at all.”

She nodded, “I believe the maesters call it ‘ghost limb’. Maester Luwin taught us about that. There were many older men at Winterfell who had survived the battles during Robert’s Rebellion, but lost limbs. The pain in those missing limbs would be so severe it was sometimes unbearable for them.”

“Yes,” Jaime said, struggling to hide the excitement in his voice, “I’ve heard of it too, but paid no mind.”

“I believe there is a cure – or rather a treatment – however I do not recall. I admit at the time I was more focused on learning to sing and dance and curtsy properly. For your sake I now feel sorry that I didn’t pay heed to his words, but I was rather girlish back then.”

Jaime smiled at the blush that colored her cheeks, “Well I’m not sorry – you’re a damned fine dancer!” he jested, “And clearly you learned more than all that – after all, you help my father with ledgers and contracts and such…”

She lowered her eyes and blushed an even deeper shade of pink, “Thank you, Ser Jaime.”

The agitation in his father’s voice was apparent when he spoke again, “I don’t expect miracles, Jaime, but it is of _utmost_ importance that you redevelop some fighting skills as soon as possible.”

Jaime lowered his head, wishing – not for the first time – that his father possessed just a drop of compassion, “Why is that, father? Is there another war I should know about?”

Tywin’s jaw worked back and forth, “Tommen’s Kingsguard is comprised of men I trust – Lannister men – but men can be bought. I’d like to see you as Tommen’s sworn shield, just as the Hound was for Joffrey, independently of the Kingsguard. I need to know if the Tyrells or anyone else tries to manipulate the boy. As Tommen’s shield, you’d have the right to stand guard during all meetings, even those that I as the Hand might not be privy to.”

Jaime snorted, “You want me to spy on my own… nephew?”

“Not on your nephew, but on those that solicit him, yes.”

Jaime shook his head, unable to hide his disbelief, “So that’s it then? You want me to be a guard?”

Tywin arched a brow, “ _You_ chose to be a guard – a position you committed to for life, as I recall. Is it suddenly not good enough? What has changed?”

Jaime couldn’t say what had changed in present company, though he was certain his father knew it. Jaime committed to Aerys II and later Robert Baratheon’s Kingsguard so he would not be forced to marry and take a lordship– and most importantly, to keep him in close contact with Cersei.

“Nothing has changed, father, I suppose I’m just surprised you wouldn’t expect me to fulfill a role of higher… esteem. After all, I’m a reflection on you, or so I’ve heard many times over the years…”

“You had the opportunity to fulfill a role of the utmost esteem – Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock – your refusal to do so led me to believe you wanted to return to your previous duty.”

Jaime could not believe his ears… his _refusal_ had been to allow his father to marry Sansa, the woman he was clearly infatuated with… of course, Jaime hadn’t been certain he wanted the lordship – or the bride – but he still did his father a favor by stepping aside. Now the man spoke as if he resented Jaime for that decision. He looked to Sansa, who was staring at her half-eaten meal with vacant eyes.

“You’re right father, I suppose I expected you might want me as the Commander of our Armies, or Master-at-Arms, or… well, it doesn’t matter.”

Tywin seemed to soften, though Jaime knew not why, “Jaime, I don’t intend to die in King’s Landing. When I return to the Rock, I will need to know that Tommen has someone by his side whose loyalty is unwavering.”

Sansa looked surprised by her husband’s words, but recovered enough to contribute to the discussion, “Ser Jaime, I believe your father is saying that, though the role may not _sound_ esteemed, he places greater value on it than on any other role you could assume – and you are the only person he trusts.”

Tywin visibly bristled, “I don’t need you to translate for me, wife.”

Jaime felt his eyes widen at his father’s harsh words. Sansa looked to be biting her tongue. After she spoke on his behalf multiple times tonight, Jaime thought it only fair to return the favor, “Perhaps you didn’t need her to translate, father, but I did. Thank you, Lady Sansa…” He smiled sympathetically at her before turning back to Tywin, “I understand my duty, father. I shall continue my training, so that I can once again be qualified to guard a king.”

The rest of the meal was tense, with Jaime attempting to make small talk, and receiving less than enthusiastic responses from his father and goodmother. Jaime excused himself promptly after dinner and sought his little brother, needing to get pissed.

**Tywin**

This was now the second time Sansa had been insolent toward Tywin in front of his eldest son, and he could not let it become a pattern. He bit his tongue out of respect for his wife through the rest of the meal, but as soon as Jaime had departed their dining chamber he could hold back no more, “When I need you to speak for me or on behalf, my lady, I shall let you know.”

She looked at him, lifted an eyebrow as if to protest, but spoke calmly, “Yes, my lord.”

She sat at her vanity, removing pins from her hair, and began combing it. Her eyes betrayed no evidence of her thoughts.

Tywin met her eyes in the mirror, “That’s it?”

She returned his glare, “Was there something more you wished to discuss?”

“No,” he answered conclusively. He would not get pulled into a battle of words. He spoke his mind and she accepted it, even if she was not happy about it. He set about removing his clothes. He was tempted to kiss her, to force her hand by either giving into his embrace or turning a cold shoulder, but he didn’t want to give her that power to wield over him. Instead, he helped unlace her dress and bodice mechanically, then went to bed, unsure whether to feel triumphant or defeated.


	34. Battle of Wills

**Sansa**

_If he thinks he can best me in this game, he hasn’t learned a damned thing._

Those were Sansa’s exact thoughts on the third day of her and Tywin’s battle of wills. He had been openly disrespectful of Sansa when she tried to help him with Jaime. It was clear as day to Sansa that Jaime was struggling to accept his father’s decision to assign him as Tommen’s personal shield. She knew Jaime viewed it as an insult, when in reality Tywin would trust no other living man with the position. Her words were effective in convincing Jaime, and yet Tywin still berated her openly, then scolded her about it later in their bedchamber.

And since then their exchanges had been terse. They spoke at each meal, but the conversations were brusque. They hadn’t coupled, and neither had tried. Perhaps it was immature, but Sansa refused to be the one to yield. She had spent much of the past two years being as emotionless as a strawman, and she could do it for a few more days, weeks, or even months if it came to that.

Of course, when others were present, she was courteous as always – she would not let her anger toward her husband show. Tywin maintaining his reputation as a fierce and uncompromising man was an absolute necessity, but as soon as they were alone together, her mask of courtesy slipped off and she once again became as cold and hard as the ice wall built by her ancestors. And just as the wall had stood for thousands of years, Sansa would stand her ground until Tywin learned his lesson.

**Tywin**

Tywin knew the Starks had a reputation for rigid honor, but his young wife was teaching him that honor wasn’t the only thing unyielding about them. Sansa was as stubborn as a mule, as proud as a peacock, and as clever as a fox. She’d been cold toward him since their dinner with Jaime, but had not disrespected him again, giving him no grounds to admonish her.

He hadn’t dared to show any affection, knowing she would spurn his advances and force him to either take what wasn’t being offered or tuck his tail and retreat.

But luckily, he had only to wait her out until this afternoon, when she would present her plan for the labor and food shortages. She would be forced to speak to him at length about her ideas. The girl was smart but knew little of trade and economics and would undoubtedly have errors in her plan. Tywin would point out her mistakes but not berate her for them. This would humble her and make her realize there was much she could learn from her husband, and that she wasn’t always right.

They discussed her plan over an early supper, and she presented her ideas unpassionately, as if she cared not whether Tywin approved. _Too clever, indeed._

“I’ll begin with the most readily achievable measures that can deliver some short-term benefits,” she stated, “It occurs to me that if you are trying to help the smallfolk become self-sufficient you must help them find jobs. I suggest having employment boards at a few key public places within the Crownlands. The Great Hall within the Red Keep – as people already travel her to petition the Crown. Perhaps another at the docks, and a few more at popular inns and taverns. One in Flea Bottom, certainly. Employers seeking laborers can post unfilled positions, and laborers seeking work can go to these locations to inquire. Of course, someone who reads and writes should be at each location to assist. I’m sure this would not be difficult, and this person could be given a small stipend in exchange for assisting with this task.”

She paused to await his opinion, but instead he offered a question, “Have you seen such a system before?”

“No,” she shook her head, “I simply imagined myself as an unemployed person, traveling far and wide in search of suitable work, possibly with small children who I need to bring with me. It would be a most difficult task. Which reminds me of another idea that is not part of my formal proposal… imagine I am a young war widow with a toddler or two to look after. If I’m lucky enough to find a job that can support my family, I will need to leave my children in the care of some neighbor or friend, or if I’m lucky, a family member. But what if I don’t have someone nearby whom I can trust my children to? I’ll be unable to work and forced to rely on the Crown’s charity, or worse yet, pursue some unsavory profession that can be conducted in my home.”

Tywin nodded, “And your solution to this problem?”

“If there were a safe place I could bring my children, I’d be free to work – to become a contributing member of society instead of a burden to society. There are already such places, privately operated, and with varying levels of safety and cleanliness, I’m taken to understand. But if these establishments were overseen or even owned by the Crown, then their quality could be guaranteed. You could even collect a modest fee for each child brought there, perhaps a small percentage of the parent’s wages, to offset the expense of maintaining the building, providing meals for the children, and ladies to watch over the children. I’d suggest not trying to turn it into a profitable venture, for you’ll already be reaping the benefits of having fewer poor mouths to feed.”

Tywin was both disappointed and proud that both of these were sound plans, “So far, I’m in agreement with your plans, my lady. Please continue.”

“Well, since we’re on the topic of the poor, I’ve come to understand that poorhouses and orphanages offer little, if any, education or training. We know there is a shortage of certain skills after the war, why not begin teaching these trades to the older orphans and adults? Women can be taught knitting, basket weaving, gardening, cooking, and perhaps even the skills and manners needed to be servants in castles. Men and boys can be taught carpentry, bookkeeping, farming, fishing, animal husbandry… whatever skills are most lacking in the Crownlands.”

“And who will teach these people? Who will incur the expense?”

“The Crown will, at least initially. I suggest hiring older instructors who are physically unable to work but can still pass on their knowledge. They would command a much lower salary. Long term, you could institute a give-back program. For every month of lodging and training received, the person would give back a week of their time training others or helping out in some other way. Of course, you can also sell the wares produced at the poorhouses. But again, this will most likely not be a profit to the Crown, but it will lead to a more productive society and more trade and commerce, which of course is taxable.”

It was another good idea, “I will consider it,” Tywin said curtly.

Sansa nodded, “Speaking of trade and commerce, I hope I am not overstepping, but I wonder if you have plans to resume trade with the North, now that… well, that the war is over.”

Tywin bristled. Relations with the North were not amicable. Sansa apparently took his silence for an answer, “I see. I understand there is some lingering hostility, but perhaps trade does not have to go directly through the Houses of the North; after all, they will undoubtedly be hoarding much of their crop yields and other provisions for the coming winter. Have you heard of the Gift, my lord?”

“A little.”

“It was land gifted to the Night’s Watch by my Stark ancestors so that the Watch could cultivate it and use it as a source of sustenance and income. I heard my father and Uncle Benjen discussing the state of the Night’s Watch a few times over the years. They are undermanned, and the Gift has been all but neglected. Perhaps you could work out some arrangement with the Watch – lend the funds and men needed to develop this land in exchange for discounts on purchases of goods they produce there – fur, meat, crops, ale… Just an idea.”

Tywin nodded, “I will consider that. The Night’s Watch writes often to request our support. During the war there was little we could spare, but perhaps now we can reevaluate the situation.”

“As you say. My final proposal is to open up monthly or quarterly swap meets in the capital where farmers, hunters, and fisherman can conduct bartering. Before you protest, understand this would be _sanctioned_ bartering, and you could charge a fee to those who participate.”

“I fail to see the benefit…”

“The benefit is two-fold. First, it will facilitate trade within the Crownlands and potentially neighboring lands by providing a central locale. Second, I believe there is some benefit when people see the inter-reliance we have on one another.”

“Please elaborate.”

“Well, if I give you a pair of wool socks that I knitted in exchange for a bottle of mead that you brewed, I believe a bit of respect is also exchanged. We each see and appreciate the craftmanship that went into our respective goods. Conversely, if you pay three coppers to a merchant for a pair of socks, he is only seeing your coin, and you are never seeing the person who spent hours knitting those socks.”

“I still fail to see how this benefits the Crown.”

Sansa rubbed her neck, “Perhaps _directly_ it doesn’t, but it provides a communal experience, which helps unify the people. Unity is important, I should think. You never know when your people will need to unite against an enemy. These swap meets can also be observed by a representative of the Crown, giving him insight into the health of trade within the capital. He can report back to you about potential shortages. Certainly you can find some way to use such knowledge to your benefit. It won’t replace regular commerce, it will simply… _augment_ it.”

“Your plan is… _impressive_ , my lady. Might I ask if you had assistance in devising it?”

“I sought the counsel of Lords Tyrion and Varys to understand the current state of affairs. I thought I’d find there were already similar programs in place that simply needed to be improved upon. I’ll admit I was rather shocked by my findings.”

Tywin steepled his fingers, considering his wife’s many proposals, “It seems to me, my lady, that these programs will need to be closely monitored and governed. I can see how some might try to corrupt or profit off of these activities. The likes of Petyr Baelish come to mind.”

She nodded thoughtfully, “I would consider appointing a Master of Labor and a Master of Welfare. The latter can be a representative of the people – bringing to the Crown’s attention the people’s needs and plights and of course overseeing the programs I mentioned, if you agree to them. This person would relieve some of the King’s burden, since a good number of the petitions the King receives on a daily basis are from smallfolk in need of basic assistance. Similarly, the Master of Labor would hear those seeking work or voicing grievances over trade and business transactions.”

Tywin could – finally – see a major flaw with this aspect of the plan, “Wouldn’t this lessen the smallfolk’s respect for the King? They would view this Master of Welfare as their savior…”

“Indeed, I considered that. Which is why it is of utmost importance that you appoint someone related to the King. I would suggest Lord Tyrion, if you can find another Master of Coin to take over that responsibility for him. Also, the more serious matters will still be brought in front of King Tommen, and I would suggest he make a regular appearance at the poorhouses and orphanages. Perhaps fund some of the programs directly, have them named after him. Right now, the Tyrells are viewed as generous and benevolent. If they win the love of the people, I fear they may come to view Tommen as… dispensable.”

Tywin was surprised that his wife had come to this conclusion. Though the Tyrells were allies of House Lannister, and seemed to be kind to Sansa, she was not so naïve as to put blind trust in them.

Tywin studied her a moment, noticing she looked paler than usual, a bit ashen even. He sighed, “And who would you propose as the Master of Labor?”

Sansa rubbed her temple, “To keep peace with the Tyrells you may need to appoint someone connected to them. I’ve heard you complain that Mace Tyrell is out of his element as the Master of Laws. Perhaps he would be better suited as the Master of Labor. If Ser Jaime’s schedule would allow it, I should think he could fulfill the role of Master of Laws. I understand it’s one of the less time-consuming roles on the small council. Oh, that reminds me. Independent of my other suggestions, I believe it is time for another census, since the war has left the realm much changed. There must be a proper accounting of the population, the rate of employment, and other demographic information so that you truly know the health of the realm. If you decide to appoint a Master of Labor or Welfare, I would task him with this immediately.”

“I agree that would be wise.”

Sansa nodded weakly, “Might I be permitted to retire now, my lord?”

“You don’t wish to hear my thoughts on your plan?”

She shook her head, “I’ve given my suggestions and will gladly answer any questions you have. The decisions are yours to make.”

Her words were curt but not rudely spoken. Something was not right. “Are you unwell, wife?”

She shook her head, “My head aches, my lord, that is all.”

“Why did you not tell me sooner?”

“I did not want to be tardy in delivering my proposal.”

“Stubborn woman, you could be ill,” forgetting all his earlier animosity Tywin rushed to her side and felt her forehead. It felt clammy but not warm.

“I’ll summon the maester,” he started toward the door.

“No, my lord, I’m not ill. It’s just… my moonblood is upon me. It’s always like this the first day. Belly cramps and headache. I’ll be better on the morrow. I’d just like to retire to my bedchamber, if I may.”

“Of course, I’ll accompany you,” Tywin helped her rise and ignored the slight disappointment he felt at the realization that she was not with child. It was foolish to even think it possible this soon into their marriage, especially when only a few months ago she had drunk moontea to expel Joffrey’s planted seed, but still, Tywin couldn’t help but hope…

When they reached the door to her private bedchamber, she went to enter but Tywin stopped her. She looked up at him, confused, “I should sleep in my own room for the next few days, my lord.”

He scowled at her, “Nonsense, you’re unwell and I want to keep you in my sight.”

His answer didn’t alleviate her confusion, as she looked at him even more perplexed, “Why?”

“Because I will have a sleepless night thinking of you alone and in pain. Come wife and stop your foolishness.” He gave her no more opportunity to resist as he led her by the waist to their shared bedchamber. Two maids were there turning down the bed and Tywin addressed them, “After you help my wife undress return with a hot water skin.”

Sansa went behind her changing screen with the maids, emerging a few minutes later in a long sleeping gown. Tywin poured her some sweet wine and bid her to drink it to help dull the pain. The entire time she stared at him suspiciously. A few minutes later one of the maids returned with a skin filled with hot water. Tywin took it and told her to return with a fresh one in an hour.

“To bed, wife,” he commanded.

Even as she complied, she continued studying him. She laid far on her side of the bed, causing Tywin to huff and move closer to her. He pressed the skin to her lower belly and encouraged her to lay with her feet flat on the mattress, knees bent. It was obvious his actions confused her, and it was only then he remembered that they had not been on friendly terms the past few days. He rolled his eyes, “Sansa, we may not always get along, but that doesn’t mean I won’t take care of you.” He placed his warm hand on her forehead, squeezing gently to soothe her headache. After some time he slid his hand beneath the water skin to rub her belly in similar fashion, but when he did Sansa practically jumped out of bed, flinging his hand away.

“My lord, you cannot do that!”

Not it was Tywin’s turn to be confused, “Do what? Comfort my wife?”

She shook her head vehemently, “You should not touch me when I have my moonblood. I’m not clean.”

“For Gods sake, I’m not fucking you, Sansa, I’m rubbing your belly.”

“Still… we shouldn’t even be in the same bed!”

“Who told you this?”

“Everyone knows this! Husbands and wives lay apart during this time so the wife’s discomfort and… _state_ doesn’t affect her husband.”

Tywin scoffed. It had been many years since he had to endure the misinformed ramblings of a young woman who had been too reliant on a prude Septa for all her knowledge.

“Sansa lay back down. Whatever nonsense your Septa taught you in this regard you can forget about.”

She shyly returned to lay in the bed, still keeping a foot of space between them.

He rolled his eyes again, refusing to suffer this foolishness any longer. He pulled her back against his chest, fitting his bent legs within hers and using his left hand to hold the hot water skin against her belly. He said no more and instead closed his eyes and let himself feel the tension gradually leaving his wife’s body. Occasionally she would wince and stiffen in pain for a few seconds. It was said that a woman’s moonblood was not entirely unlike childbirth – the muscles of her womb contracted painfully to expel blood just as they did during labor to expel the babe. Of course, the pain of childbirth was much more intense. A long-forgotten memory of Joanna explaining this came back to him. Before birthing the twins, she suffered from severe pain during her moonblood. She said it was similar to a leg cramp a man might get after a particularly grueling training session, only in the belly instead of the calf. Unlike a leg cramp that was severe but usually lasted only a minute, the belly cramps would come and go intermittently, usually for several hours or even a day or two.

Shortly after swapping out the now lukewarm water skin for the fresh one, Sansa sighed, nuzzling her face into Tywin’s arm. Her breathing had started to become steady and he realized she was asleep.

Sometime late in the night Tywin woke to find he had rolled over onto his back, and Sansa was snuggled against his side, her arm draped over his chest. His sleepy brain remembered how he started out the day hoping to win a battle over his wife. She had won the battle decidedly, yet Tywin still grinned to himself, feeling victorious, nonetheless.


	35. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is her own worst enemy (now that Joffrey and Cersei are dead, of course.)

**Tywin**

Nearly three moons after his wedding, Tywin was finding marriage to be much like horseback riding or sword-fighting. Skills acquired in one’s youth didn’t disappear from disuse, but they did get rusty. Different muscles were sore after a day of training than after a day of sitting on the throne, or behind a desk. Techniques once readily employed would be _almost_ forgotten but would quickly come back to you when those skills were once again needed.

Similarly, he began to remember lessons he’d learned but nearly forgotten from his first marriage. Comforting Sansa during her moonblood was the first example, and one that earned him some grateful kisses when Sansa woke the next morning feeling well-rested and less achy.

But not all the lessons that came back to him were as pleasant. For instance, he remembered how women hate when they think you’re being inattentive, which he was reminded of after he’d been particularly distracted during their evening meal this night. Sansa had been prattling on about something Margaery had told her, and Tywin couldn’t care less about the topic of flowers or dresses or sweets or whatever Sansa had been telling him.

“Tywin,” she raised her voice.

“Yes?” he responded impatiently.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“You had tea with Margaery this afternoon.”

“Yes, and?”

“Oh for Gods’ sake, I don’t care what that half-wit had to say.”

Sansa gritted her teeth, “You told me to be alert for any evidence of discontent within the court.”

“What discontent?” _Is that what she’d been talking about?_

Sansa exhaled loudly, “Margaery said Lady Olenna was surprised by our _hasty_ marriage.”

“Mace knew of it; it isn’t my fault he doesn’t talk to his mother.”

“Apparently Olenna told Margaery it was poor taste for you to marry me so soon after… after my attack, but Margaery suspects Olenna is just sore because she had designs on me for her grandson Willas.”

This finally got Tywin’s full attention, though it shouldn’t have been surprising, “Oh?”

Sansa nodded, “Yes. Olenna planned on approaching the subject after the Royal Wedding, but of course things became hectic. She seemed to think you and she had some type of… _understanding_.”

Now this _was_ surprising. Did Olenna think Tywin would _gift_ Sansa to her grandson in exchange for her procuring and later administering the poison that killed Joffrey? Tywin felt they had entered that secret alliance with equal investment in the outcome – Olenna wouldn’t have to see her beloved granddaughter married to the cretin that was Joffrey, and Tywin wouldn’t have to see Joffrey ruin his legacy piece by piece.

“I will talk to Olenna,” Tywin said curtly.

Sansa nodded, “Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you and Olenna have an agreement in place to wed me to Willas?”

Tywin’s instincts told him to tell her it was none of her business, but he took a breath and responded with the truth instead, “No. Never. Though it isn’t surprising that Olenna would seek such a match. Mace Tyrell even proposed it during a small council meeting to discuss your match.”

“You discussed that with the small council?” she looked surprised and perhaps a bit insulted.

“Well, it was important to get Cersei, Joffrey, and Mace to agree to our marriage. Lord Varys, Kevan, and Tyrion were present, but…” he trailed off, unsure why this would be bothering his pragmatic wife.

He placed his napkin on his plate a bit harshly, “You were a ward of the Crown; I may be the Hand but I am _not_ the King; Joffrey’s support was necessary, and the only way to get his support was by discussing the topic in front of witnesses. Do you disapprove, wife?”

Her eyes were downcast, “No, I suppose I was just… I never really imagined myself being the subject of a public debate.”

“You weren’t. It wasn’t a debate, and it wasn’t public.”

“You know what I mean, husband.”

He didn’t, but he wouldn’t say that. Another lesson that his new wife was resuscitating – don’t say the first thing that comes to mind until you’ve thought it through. Instead he simply sighed and resumed eating his chicken. She seemed equally interested in moving onto a new subject, “Any more news on the Iron Born?”

A group of men led by the self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands, Euron Greyjoy, had been raiding along the western coast of the northern kingdom. It was Roose Bolton’s problem now, but Tywin had considered lending men and ships to help fight off the raiders – and hopefully extinguish this particular threat altogether before they grew ambitious (and stupid) enough to sail south – attacking coastal cities of the Riverlands and Westerlands.

Tywin considered his response. He wasn’t accustomed to discussing such matters with anyone outside the small council – and even at that some topics were better left between he and his brother Kevan only. Ultimately, he decided no harm could come from discussing this matter with his wife, “There were three attacks in total. Sea Dragon Point, the Stony Shore, and Bear Island. The latter was successfully defended; apparently those Mormonts are few but fierce.”

“Indeed,” Sansa nodded, “Even the women there can wield sword, axe, or bow – or all three.” There was a hint of pride in her voice, and perhaps a bit of envy.

After sipping her Arbor Gold she continued, “Is there news of Theon?”

Tywin narrowed his eyes, wondering whether she was curious about Theon Greyjoy because she had grown up with him at Winterfell while he was a ward of Ned Stark or because he had betrayed her brother Robb during the war, sacking Winterfell and killing Sansa’s younger brothers.

“No news, though admittedly our knowledge of the Iron Islands is less comprehensive and timely than of other parts of the realm.”

Sansa shook her head, “It still doesn’t make sense… Roose Bolton knows Theon’s value as a hostage or ward... He has a better claim to the Iron Islands than Euron. I can’t understand how Theon could have gotten out of Winterfell under Bolton rule…”

“By all accounts he escaped.”

“No one escapes the Boltons,” she said firmly.

“Well, there is a first time for everything.”

She shook her head, “No; not for this.”

“What are you implying, wife?”

“That if Theon got out of Winterfell it was because someone let him go. Or someone was careless, which means Roose Bolton does not have control. Everyone in the North knows his reputation for cruelty. Roose Bolton used to have _complete_ authority over his people. They were uncompromisingly _loyal_ to him because they didn’t want to be flayed alive, or worse yet – watch their loved ones be flayed alive.”

Tywin considered her words. He had to agree with her assessment of the Boltons, but he suspected she was trying to pit him against Roose – the man who betrayed and murdered her brother and mother. He wanted to see how far she’d go down this path, “And if Roose is losing control…”

She shrugged, “I assume you named him Warden of the North not just because of his role in ending the war, but because few other men could keep the Northmen from taking up arms against the Crown again… Am I wrong?”

Tywin gritted his teeth, “No.”

“Then perhaps you should find out what the situation is at Winterfell, before it gets out of hand.”

“I must say, wife, I’d think you’d _prefer_ the situation get out of hand. Do you truly want to see Roose Bolton ruling your beloved homeland?”

“Of course not, but I also don’t want to see any more war. Enough Northern lives have been lost. If it was up to me the Boltons would be gone and the North would be at peace. Of course, you and I are only in alignment on the peace; I’m sure you enjoy having someone like Roose Bolton to do your bidding. I merely caution you to keep a close eye on him. If the North is only loyal to him due to his fearsome reputation, and that reputation is beginning to diminish, well…”

Tywin grumbled something that could have been an affirmative response, “And who would be a suitable Warden of the North, if Roose was found to be… _unfit?”_

She snorted, “You’d really trust me to make that decision?”

“No,” he answered bluntly, “But I’d hear your opinion, nonetheless.”

She let out a sigh, “The most respected families in the North are the Umbers, Glovers, and Manderlys. The Mormonts are respected as well, but there are only women left in that family, from what I’ve heard. Lord Manderly has daughters of a marriageable age. If Tyrion or Jaime would agree to a marriage, which they won’t, it would make for a rather strong alliance. The Umbers are a prideful family; they may be difficult to control. The Glovers and Manderlys would be more… pliable.”

Tywin eyed his young bride with admiration that was hard to hide, “You were a girl when you left Winterfell; how do you know all this?”

“I remember my lessons on the noble houses, but I suppose you can attribute it to the fact that my father openly discussed affairs of the kingdom with my mother, and she openly discussed them with me, knowing someday I would serve my lord husband well with such knowledge – particularly if he were a man strong in battle experience but weak in politics.”

“Your mother did me a great service, then,” Tywin responded in half-jest.

A wolf-like smirk appeared on Sansa’s face, “She wouldn’t have, if she’d known who my future husband would be.”

Tywin chuckled, “Oh? I’m curious what your lady mother told you about the Lannisters.”

“Nothing that I’d be wise to repeat.”

“Humor me,” Tywin insisted.

Sansa sighed, “She said that Lannisters are the worst type of dangerous: cruelty combined with cunning. Before coming to the capital she warned me that Cersei is a cold woman, and that I should mind what I say in her presence. She told me that the Great Lion’s heart was made of ice – that he might be good for repaying debts but doesn’t know how to repay loyalty. And that the Kingslayer should be grateful to be alive and should have been humbled by his _experience_ instead of made more arrogant.”

“And do you agree with your mother’s assessment?”

“Would you prefer pleasant lies or painful truths, husband?” she asked casually.

Tywin drew his tongue across his teeth, trying to hide his insult. How could Sansa still believe he wasn’t a man who rewarded loyalty? Trying to sound casual he asked her just this question.

“I haven’t known you long enough to know whether you repay loyalty, though you certainly don’t mind aligning with people who are _disloyal_ – if not to you, then to others. Robert Baratheon and Roose Bolton come to mind, not to mention your wife.”

“My wife?”

“I’ve betrayed my family and people by marrying you; does that not make me a disloyal person?”

Tywin was stunned. He had, of course, thought about things from his wife’s perspective – her choice to marry an older man, to marry into a family hers had been at war with… but it never occurred to him that she considered it a betrayal of her people.

“Sansa…”

“There’s nothing to say, my lord. My decision was made, it is for me to live with, and for you to wonder if my penchant for betrayal will ever be pointed at you.”

Why would she plant that seed in his mind? Did she hope that by mentioning the possibility of a betrayal that he’d assume she’d never really do it? Or was she so guilty about her perceived betrayal of her people that she needed to voice it aloud? Tywin suspected it was the latter, as his wife’s eyes took on that dull appearance they had whenever she was deep in her own emotions.

_Say something!_

But what could he say? He could only speak to his loyalty toward her, not hers toward him. Should he tell her how hopelessly loyal he felt to her? That he’d cut off his own lips before kissing another woman? That he would never dishonor her if it was within his power to avoid it? That he’d like to kill everyone who caused her pain, even if it had benefited him at the time? He couldn’t admit these things, couldn’t let her know that she could control him if she just knew the reins were in her hands.

He cleared his throat, “Most major decisions in life are not easy, wife. Most decisions force us to choose between two unpleasant options… But imagine your brother had survived the war, and offered a marriage between you and I to seal the alliance – would you still feel like a traitor?”

She shook her head, “Probably not. But that isn’t what happened, is it?”

“No, but the outcome is the same, we are wed, the war is over.”

“And my family is dead. I didn’t marry you to save them, or to end the war. I married you to save myself and…”

Tywin felt like he’d been kicked in the belly by a mule. He had to take a deep breath to evict the fear from his voice, “And what, Sansa?”

“And to have my revenge on Joffrey.”

“I see,” Tywin could not let the hurt show through his voice, so he kept his words to a minimum.

“But that’s not why it feels like a betrayal,” tears were gathering in her eyelashes, but through some extreme willpower she did not let them fall.

“Why then?”

She didn’t speak, and he racked his brain trying to deduce what she was suppressing.

“I can’t tell you,” she eventually whispered.

**Sansa**

Sansa’s life had become a pendulum swinging between two emotions: happiness and guilt. When she was alone with Tywin in their bedchamber, she found herself discovering things to love about him. The way he took care of her so sweetly, even if his words were rarely sweet. The way he listened to her ideas and appeared to value her suggestions. Even when he disagreed with something she proposed, he explained why, he didn’t just wave her off like she was a simpleton.

And there were little things he did – probably involuntarily – that made her heart swell. His arms held her as they slept. He often dressed or undressed her instead of summoning her maid. He might grumble about the laces, but there was an undercurrent of joy in his voice. He would also often give her his dessert. He didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, so he would give her his piece of cake or dish of berries and cream, and when she accepted it she’d see a slight smile curve the corner of his mouth. Knowing he might want _some_ dessert even if not an entire helping, she’d sometimes gather a generous spoonful of the treat and offer it to him. He’d mumble something about sweets being for women, or him being too old to be reckless with his diet, but he’d always take the offered bite and Sansa would have to hide her grin at the idea of the Great Lion being spoon-fed by his wife.

He also gave her gifts – thoughtful gifts. A silk robe to wear as the nights were getting cooler. A book on the North. A bracelet made of silver or white gold to represent her House colors. And he’d instructed the servants to keep a fresh bouquet of flowers in their bedchamber at all times.

In short, Sansa was surprised to find just how happy she was as the wife of Tywin Lannister, despite the trials they’d gone through.

But unfortunately, Sansa was not built to accept happiness without considering the cost. Occasionally she’d be reminded of how calloused her husband was, usually when hearing him deal with people who were displeasing him. She didn’t fault him for this trait, but it served as a reminder that she had married an enemy of her family… the man who had permitted the murder of her brother and mother. Upon having these realizations she would become literally nauseated with guilt, imagining her parents and siblings looking down on her from heavens and feeling utter shame. She wondered if her sister Arya was alive somewhere and had heard of Sansa’s marriage. She could just imagine Arya’s petulant voice saying, “I’d sooner stick Tywin Lannister with a sword than let him stick me with his prick.”

Sansa flushed at the words in her head, even knowing how accurately they captured Arya’s personality.

These feelings came to a head this night as she and Tywin spoke about the wretched Boltons. Why did she have to bring up this subject? And worse, why did Tywin have to speak to her so reasonably? If only he’d been harsh or dismissive, then she could direct all her anger at him. Instead she could only direct it at herself. She was growing closer to this man who should be her enemy; a man she should be learning to manipulate so he would do her bidding without even realizing it. But he was so damned caring, even if no one knew it but her. When choosing to marry him she of course considered that fact that it would be a betrayal, but at the time she was so focused on Joffrey she couldn’t care. She also felt confident that she was willing to give Tywin her body because she would never give him her heart.

Yet here she was, only a few moons into their marriage, feeling like a lovesick fool. And she could never – _never –_ admit it to him. If she confessed the depth of her affection for him, he would wield it like a whip.

_Wouldn’t he?_

She was pulled back to the present by Twin asking why she really felt like she was betraying her people. It was so tempting to just set the truth free…

_Because I care about you._

_Because I think I’m falling in love with you, and that means I am weak…_

_And loving you will make me even weaker._

She raised her watery eyes to meet his, which were filled with a look of genuine concern. “I can’t tell you,” she eventually whispered.


	36. Extracting a confession

**Tywin**

Tywin was beginning to regret this decision after suffering three days of Sansa’s aloofness toward him. He knew her well enough by now to know she wasn’t mad at him, though he wished it was that. When she was mad, she unleashed her inner wolf, tearing into him mercilessly and with a passion that inevitably ended in their coupling – often with her taking her own pleasure and not granting him his until he’d apologized or otherwise atoned for his offense.

No, this was _not_ anger. This was something else. Sadness, guilt, remorse… he knew not which, specifically, but they were all feelings that made her close in on herself, to lock away the fierce creature behind bars constructed of empty courtesy. She was cold and emotionless, and Tywin wondered whether it was meant to shut him out or to shut herself out.

Still – the decision had been made, and his wife and the others would learn about it today…

**Tyrion**

Tyrion tapped his fingers anxiously on the thick wooden table, not caring that the noise and motion irritated his father.

Despite this being called a “Small Council” meeting, the group today was unusually large. In addition to his father, Uncle Kevan, Maester Pycelle, Lord Varys, and Lord Mace, his brother and goodmother were also present. Jaime and Sansa both looked as confused as Tyrion; clearly his father hadn’t informed either of the reason for their presence today.

Tommen entered right on time, though everyone else had arrived five minutes early as was the custom. He greeted everyone warmly and took the seat next to his grandfather. Tywin nodded respectfully at the boy, who seemed to have already been appraised of whatever news Tywin was about to deliver.

Tyrion’s father began in his usual commanding tone, “King Tommen and I have been speaking over the past few weeks about the future of the realm now that war is behind us, and winter is ahead of us…”

Tyrion knew that meant that Tywin was telling Tommen what should be done and why. His nephew was a sweet boy, but his education in business and politics was sorely lacking – more evidence of Cersei and Robert’s complete incompetence as both rulers and parents.

“…We both feel that it is of utmost necessity that the Small Council be effective not just as individuals but as a unit. The late Petyr Baelish taught us all how dangerous it is for one person to be given unchecked power in his domain. The former Kingsguard taught us a similar lesson…”

Tyrion’s eyes darted to Sansa, though she did not react at all.

Tywin continued, “Everyone at this table is here because they are capable and trustworthy. However, the value of the Small Council must be greater than the sum of its parts. It is only through transparency and collaboration that we can truly serve the realm… Going forward, each member of the Small Council will have an individual domain of responsibility, but there will be another who shares partial responsibility for that domain, acting in a support capacity. The assignments are as follows…”

Everyone shifted in their seats, the anticipation palpable in the large room.

“Lord Tyrion will continue as Master of Coin and will assist Lord Mace who will take on a new position as Master of Labor. The details and responsibilities of that position have been drafted herein,” Tywin handed a parchment to Mace Tyrell, “but in summary, the Master of Labor is responsible for enabling a productive and balanced workforce to reduce the populace’s dependency on the Crown while ensuring the critical workforce needs of the realm are being fulfilled.”

“Lord Kevan will take on the role of Master of Laws. As per his wish, Kevan’s position will continue to be considered a temporary one until a suitable replacement can be found. In the interim he will also support Lord Varys, who will retain his position as Master of Whispers.”

“Ser Garlan Tyrell, who will arrive here within a sennight, will be appointed as the new Master of Ships, but will also support Ser Jaime, who will act as the Commander of the Crown’s Armies. As, in times of peace, this is not a full-time position, Ser Jaime will be reinstated as the Commander of the Kingsguard. Loras Tyrell will share this responsibility – Loras as the representative from the future Queen’s family, Jaime as the representative from the King’s family.”

“Lady Sansa will assume the newly-created position of Master of Welfare. The details of which are outlined herein,” the parchment was passed around the table to Sansa who looked spellbound. “She will be supported by Lord Varys and will work closely with Lord Mace, since their objectives will overlap in some regards. She will also be the Crown’s official delegate to the Night’s Watch and will work closely with the King and Queen to ensure positive relations between the smallfolk and the Royal Family.”

Tywin sat back for a moment, and Tyrion knew he was surveying the reactions around him for signs of discontent. Seeing none, he continued, “This new model may need to be refined over time, but the king and I believe it is a first step in the right direction. Does anyone have any questions?”

Seeing no one was quick to speak, Tyrion broke in, “Just one father, shouldn’t Lady Sansa be referred to as the _Mistress_ of Welfare?”

Jaime chuckled, and Varys cracked a half-smile, but Tywin was – not surprisingly – unamused.

“Any _other_ questions?”

Mace Tyrell spoke next, “No questions, though I may have some after I review my new responsibilities. However I’d like to state on my son Garlan’s behalf, that he will be most honored by this appointment… As for myself, I look forward to working with Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion,” he nodded to Sansa and Tyrion in turn.

Next Varys spoke, “Lord Hand, first let me say that I am in full support of this new system and I congratulate the new appointees – Ser Jaime, Lord Garlan, and Lady Sansa. I look forward to working closely with Lord Kevan and Lady Sansa.”

Tyrion glanced back to Sansa and Jaime who were seated side-by-side. Both wore looks of shock, though where Jaime’s was something akin to dumbfounded, Sansa’s was tinged with skepticism – or perhaps even suspicion.

The meeting was concluded so that everyone could begin working on their new duties, except Varys and Tyrion who’d work on their _old_ duties. Tyrion was one of the last to leave, and as he cast a glance over his shoulder, he noticed that only his father and Sansa remained in the room, and that the mood was decidedly _tense._

**Tywin**

“Why?” his wife spat from across the council table.

He didn’t dare ask what she was referring to, “Because it was a good idea.”

“You know what I mean, Tywin.” She only used his first name when she was very happy with him, or very angry.

“Because you’re well qualified for the position and I know you will act in the best interest of the people.”

“Oh spare me! You don’t care about the people, you only care about what they think of the Crown. You want me as a figurehead. You want them to see poor Lady Sansa who is an orphan herself, someone to whom they can relate.”

“Appearances are important, yes. This is politics, wife. But I _do_ wish to see a self-sufficient population, and the fact that they may trust you more than others will mean they will accept your help in achieving that goal.”

She rolled her eyes, a habit of hers he found rather infuriating, “And what of this new model of _transparency_ and _collaboration…_ I notice I am to work with Mace Tyrell; Jaime is to work with Garlan Tyrell _and_ Loras Tyrell. You’re only bringing Jaime and me into the council so we can spy on the Tyrells because you have to give them positions on the council, but you don’t trust them.”

“Of course! Do you blame me? Do you think I want to see another Petyr Baelish fiasco?” Tywin stood and walked to the sideboard, pouring himself a goblet of wine. He rarely drank this early, but his wife’s reaction to what he thought was a show of respect and honor was grating on him.

She was silent but her gaze remained steely.

“If you don’t want the position, Sansa, just say so. I’ll find someone else.”

“I _want_ the position because you truly think I’m best for it. I don’t want to be used!”

“Used? _Used?”_ Tywin scoffed, “You _are_ the best for it. Did anyone else come to me with a solution for the poor? For the orphans and widows?”

“You didn’t ask anyone else, or they would—”

“I didn’t _ask_ you! You offered. Mace, Tyrion, Pycelle, Varys… they were all fully aware of the situation. Only _you_ wanted to do anything about it!”

“They’re all busy with other tasks…”

“Busy?! Hah! Tyrion and Varys perhaps, not Mace, not Pycelle. I’ll admit Varys has shown a concern for the smallfolk in the past, but he’s never come to me with a proposal such as yours.”

She leaned back in her chair; eyes narrowed. She was looking for signs of deception, that was clear, “Are you lying to me, husband? Are you manipulating me?”

There was something both challenging and provocative in her tone. Tywin walked to her slowly, carefully, and offered his hand to help her stand. She looked at his limb suspiciously for several seconds before grasping it and rising to her feet.

With much care Tywin turned her to face the table. Dropping to his knees he reached under her skirts to pull down her smallclothes, stroking her hips and thighs as he did so. He stood again and pulled her hair away from her neck so he could kiss it softly. He loved how responsive his little wife was, even when angry, moaning softly as soon as his lips met her tender skin. He continued his affection unhurriedly for several minutes before pulling up her skirt and skimming his middle finger along her wet crease.

Tywin circled her entrance as his lips moved to her ear, growling to communicate his desire, “I know the punishment for lying to you, Sansa. Do you think I would risk _this_?” He punctuated the last word by delving a finger inside her. Her only response was an involuntarily gasp.

He continued working in and out of her but wouldn’t let his question remain unanswered. As she bent forward slightly to lean on the table he asked, “Well, do you?”

She shook her head, and he knew that she meant it. Without delay he plunged his cock into her, stretching her all at once. She cried out in pain and bliss, and Tywin was certain the guards in the hallway could hear it even through the thick door.

He pumped three days’ worth of frustration into her, and she took it all gladly, crying and panting in time with his thrusts. She was now fully bent over the table, and he was in complete control.

_But only because she’s letting you…_

Tywin bunched her skirts up even higher to rest on her lower back, allowing himself to take in the sight of his long shaft fucking into her mercilessly. His cock was completely coated in her fluids and the thought of how wet she’d gotten assured him that she wanted this just as badly as he did.

But something still plagued his mind, stealing some of the focus that should have been on his lovely wife. Why was she so somber these past days? What was it she refused to tell him at dinner that night? He continued fucking her as he planned his strategy for extracting an answer.

He knew by now the sounds coming from her throat signaled she was close. He quickened his pace and watched her face, the side of it he could see, contort in pleasure – eyes squeezed shut, lips parted to reveal clenched teeth. He leaned closer without breaking his rhythm, “What is it you won’t tell me, Sansa? Why are you so somber?”

“Nooo!!” she cried out – both a response to his question and an expression of her blinding pleasure.

“Tell me, Sansa, don’t keep anything from me.”

“I can’t,” she exhaled, “Please… Tywin… _please…”_

Was she pleading with him not to insist, or begging for more of his cock? He gave her the latter, not the former, thrusting into her at a blistering pace as sweat rolled down his brow, “Tell me, Sansa, _tell me!”_

“Ahh!!” she screamed out her climax and it was followed by her answer, “Because I fucking love you, Tywin!”

Perhaps he was seconds away from his own peak anyway, or perhaps it was that sentence uttered involuntarily by his wife at a moment when she was physically incapable of deceit, but Tywin released deep inside her body as if her words took form and wrapped around his cock with a viciously tight grip. He folded over her, weak and dizzy even as he continued pulsing a stream the likes of which he hadn’t expelled since his youth. Every tremor of her channel wrung another drop of joy and seed out of him.

They stayed like that, joined and breathless, until he was so soft that he simply slipped out of her heat. She whimpered at the sudden emptiness and Tywin’s lip twitched with pride that his little wife enjoyed his cock as much as she enjoyed her cunt.

When he stood up, he kept one hand on her back, pressing her to the table, “Wait, Sansa.” He leaned back to briefly admire the sight of his seed dribbling out of her swollen lips before wiping her gently with a handkerchief. He smoothed her skirts back down and helped her stand and turn, smirking as he took in the sight of her cheek reddened from being pressed against the table. Her eyes held his as he stroked his thumb over her hair, down her cheek, across her chin, and then across her lower lip. He could not yet process her confession during the throes of passion. He tucked it away to think about later. Instead of thinking or speaking, he kissed his wife firmly, and as she melted into his arms, he knew he had made the right decision.


	37. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new POV, yay!

**Tywin**

The knowledge Tywin had buried away for three days could not be ignored any longer. He laid in bed next to his pretty little wife who, as usual, had kicked away the bedcovers and lay naked from the thighs up beside him. He wasn’t sure which was the greater torture – seeing her stretched out naked like this or waking up to feel her long limbs draped over his body. Either was she was deep in sleep, unaware of the state she had him in, which seemed to make her all the more powerful due to how effortlessly she could control him.

With a bent arm beneath his head Tywin stared at the ceiling and allowed himself to contemplate Sansa’s recent confession. _She loves me_. It was surprising that she loved him after a relatively short marriage, though he supposed the actions he took to protect her before they were wed had laid a foundation for the love that would later be built. It was less surprising that she wouldn’t wish him to know of her love. His little wife was a lone wolf, unaccustomed to being dependent on anyone. Her family had been stripped away from her bit by bit; the lords and ladies of court ostracized her once the war started. Joffrey and Cersei – her betrothed and her warden – abused and berated her. Even those that were kind to her – Ladies Olenna and Margaery – probably only did so to endear themselves with the heir to Winterfell.

Tywin sighed to himself… It was no wonder she didn’t want to put her faith in anyone – she had been betrayed too many times to count– and isn’t that what love is? Entrusting your hear to another? Having faith they won’t crush it? She wasn’t happy to realize her love for Tywin, because she saw it as a kink in her armor. And how could he blame her? His heart was ripped from his chest the day Joanna died. She betrayed him by leaving the world, though through no fault of her own. As a young man focused on salvaging then bolstering his family’s position, he hadn’t taken the time to ponder how easily his love could be stolen from him. He wasn’t naïve, he knew it was a possibility, but after Joanna birthed healthy twins the idea of her dying in the birthing bed was not something he considered a likely outcome. When it happened, it seemed so cruel, like the Gods took her away to spite him for his arrogance – to remind him he wasn’t immune to tragedy as he sometimes felt after his early rise to power.

He turned his head to look at Sansa. Marrying someone so much younger than he again made him feel powerful. _She_ would be the one to mourn _him_ someday – and she had proven resilient enough to survive that experience. She would hopefully have children to distract her. She’d have her good-sons, Tyrion and Jaime, to watch over her, as well as the Hound, Addam Marbrand, and all those men loyal to the Old Lion. She would undoubtedly prosper after his death, but would he be able to the same if their fates were reversed? He began to worry that the Gods would once again seek to punish Tywin for his arrogance, not to mention his many crimes, and what punishment would be worse than taking a second wife away from him?

Before this moment he hadn’t pondered Sansa’s mortality. She seemed so hearty, so strong. After all she’d survived, childbirth seemed like it would be no challenge at all, but he would not make the mistake of taking anything for granted – his first wife paid for his arrogance, his second would not. He would cherish her and keep her safe. When she was with child, he’d bring in an entire host of midwives, wise women, and maesters. If any of them appraised her pregnancy as high risk, he would demand it be terminated. He would not chance that a late-term miscarriage or difficult childbirth would take her away from him. He would _not_ let that happen.

He smiled to himself, but quickly dowsed the prideful emotion. No – assuming he had complete control was just as dangerous a way to tempt the Gods as arrogance was.

_Gods. Hmpf. Since when did I start fearing them again?_

It had been decades, really, since he gave them any purchase in his thoughts. He cursed them after Joanna’s death and decided they were unworthy of his time and prayers. Recently, however, he found himself thinking of them more and more, though not necessarily with any respect. Perhaps that should change. Perhaps he’d accompany Sansa to the Sept or Godswood. A prayer or two couldn’t hurt…

_What in bloody hell is happening to me?_

He rubbed his tired eyes. This damned she-wolf was making him weak. She was digging up parts of him long buried under bone and flesh. The part of him that feared the Gods, the part of him that felt vulnerable, the part of him that craved a woman’s touch, the part of him that remembered what love felt like...

Before he could contemplate that terrifying realization, he was pulled from his thoughts by his wife’s muffled moans and whimpers. He looked to her and noticed her limbs were twitching. She was crying and mumbling gibberish.

He touched her shoulder lightly, but she did not respond. “Sansa,” he whispered. Still no response, though her movements and crying became more pronounced. He shook her, gently at first, but with increasing force as she still did not wake.

He repeated her name more loudly and continued shaking her, even slapping her tear stained cheeks lightly. “Sansa wake up!” he bellowed the command as if he were leading men on the battlefield.

“Tywin!” she screamed out so loudly that it hurt his ears. Her eyes snapped open at the same moment and fluttered around wildly for several seconds before landing on his face. “Oh!” she cried out, throwing herself into Tywin’s arms, “You see me? You hear me?”

“Of course, my dear,” he stroked her hair soothingly, “It was just a nightmare.”

“Oh Tywin it was horrible! It was Joffrey and Ser Meryn and … _all of them_. And you were there, and Sandor and Tyrion and Jaime. You were _right_ _there_ but it was like you couldn’t see what was happening. I called to each of you and you didn’t respond. Like you were ghosts… no, like _I_ was a ghost. But it felt so real. I felt everything!”

She buried her face into his sleeping shirt and sobbed, gripping the fabric into clenched fists, “Why didn’t you hear me?” There was hurt and anger in her words, residuals from the dream.

“Shh, it was a dream, Sansa. If it was real, I would have come. I’ll always come to you.”

“Even when you’re mad at me?” she whimpered in a childlike voice.

“Even when I’m mad. Sansa, husbands and wives will disagree with each other, they will even argue with each other, but that doesn’t mean they stop caring for one another.”

“You care for me?” she asked meekly.

He snorted, “Isn’t it obvious?”

She nodded into his chest, “Yes, but sometimes things are not as they appear.”

“That is true, my wise little wolf, but not in this case.”

At least a minute passed before she spoke again, in a barely audible whisper, “I don’t know what to believe.”

_Believe in me. Believe in us._

“Believe in yourself, wife. In your own heart and mind.”

She seemed pleased enough by his response, and soon she drifted back into a calm sleep.

* * *

**Jeran**

He entered the Lord Hand’s solar with no shortage of trepidation. Though the man had never been _unkind_ to him, the Great Lion was about as warm as a glacier, and demanded perfection from all his retainers, which included Jeran Lantell. Jeran was honored when he was assigned as Tywin Lannister’s personal maester. He actually served all of Tywin’s family and retainers living in the capital while Maester Creylen served at Casterly Rock. But being honored and being pleased were two different things. One had to be constantly vigilant when in Tywin Lannister’s presence. He despised both verbosity and vaguery with equal fervor, which meant that, for Jeran, choosing his words was more arduous a task than anything else his lord might require of him.

Tywin looked up from his parchment, “Maester Lantell.”

“My Lord, I’ve come to update you on my findings.”

“Proceed.”

Jeran took a deep breath. A few nights ago Lord Lannister had summoned him to his bedchamber. His wife had had a night terror and was unable to fall back to sleep. After Jeran gave her a drop of sweetsleep, Tywin took him into an adjoining room and told him that nearly every night for over a sennight his wife had been having these violent nightmares. On that night, Tywin had been unable to calm his wife, who was still trembling when Jeran arrived.

“My lord, I have spoken to your lady wife several times. She has described the nature of these dreams in as much detail as she can recall, which is much, likely because these dreams are in part a recollection of events that have transpired in her waking life.”

“And why is she suddenly having these terrors? Should the passage of time not dull the pain of the memories?”

Jeran nodded, “One would think, my lord, however I have also spent time talking to your wife about other aspects of her life.”

Tywin growled at the man.

“Oh, my lord, I assure you – nothing sensitive – simply her _feelings_ about various aspects of her life. Her work with the poor, her… ehm, her marriage… her relationship with the ladies of court…”

Tywin exhaled through his nose, “Proceed, Maester.”

“Well, my lord, to make you understand the conclusion I’ve reached I must tell you about the first time I met your lady wife.”

“You told me about the wounds you treated that day.”

“Right, but I did not tell you about how Lady Sansa reacted.”

“And how was that?”

“Eh, she didn’t. React. She sat as motionless as a statue while I opened and cleansed a festered bite wound. When I later asked her to describe what she felt in that moment, she described, in simple words, a state of mental detachment from one’s body. You may be aware there are some monks in Essos who practice such an extreme form of meditation. For them it takes years or even decades of practice. I believe in your wife’s case, she developed this ability spontaneously, as a survival or coping mechanism, in response to the, eh, traumas she had endured – physical and emotional.”

Tywin was tapping his fingers impatiently, “Are you saying my wife has some type of magical powers? I must warn you, maester, I find people who believe in such nonsense to be—”

“My apologies, Lord Hand, that is not what I am implying. This _condition_ , for lack of a better word, has a very scientific explanation. Eh, are you familiar with shock – perhaps in men after a battle, or in a woman after an assault?”

“Yes, I’m quite familiar.”

“Perfect. Well I don’t believe this is much different, except in your wife’s case, when she entered this trance-like state her body continued to function properly, unlike a person in shock, but she still became unfeeling of whatever stimulus put her in that state to begin with.”

“What does this have to do with my wife’s nightmares?”

“Right. I believe that, in speaking with your wife, she feels a certain level of comfort and safety that she hasn’t felt in years. No doubt your protection is largely to thank for that, plus her appointment as Master of Welfare gives her a sense of fulfillment that was grossly lacking for years… but I digress. My point is that now that she feels safe, her subconscious mind is finally processing all the uncomfortable events it once buried. The attacks on her body, the loss of her loved ones, her fear of death... As a defense mechanism she never let herself truly grieve, but those emotions cannot remain suppressed forever. They will manifest in some way or another. In your wife’s case it is night terrors. For someone else in a similar situation it might be violent physical outbursts, or an eating disorder, or a mental impairment. Though it may not seem like it, your wife’s response is fairly benign.”

Tywin lifted a brow, “And yet quite inconvenient. We are both losing much-needed hours of sleep. It cannot continue like this. What treatment do you suggest?”

“Well, in the short term, I’d suggest you sleep in separate chambers; leave your wife in the care of a maid or—”

“That is OUT of the question. I will not have her waking up from one of these nightmares with only a stranger to comfort her.”

Jeran was a bit shocked; Tywin Lannister didn’t strike him as a man who’d sacrifice his own sleep for another person’s comfort – even his wife’s.

“Of course, I can provide you with a small supply of sweetsleep, though I’d caution you only use it when your wife is particularly inconsolable.”

“I understand the dangers of administering the sedative with too much frequency. What else can we do?”

“I’m afraid, my lord, there is little to be done. Years’ worth of sorrow is being processed. I believe it will end in due time, but whether that be a sennight, a moon, or a year I cannot predict.”

“That is unacceptable. There must be something we can do other than wait for this to go away.”

“Well, I must admit this is rather unchartered territory, but logic would indicate to me that if your wife would, eh, express her feelings during the day, they may not need to present themselves at night. I do not wish to pry, but does your wife confide in you, my lord? When she is troubled about something, perhaps?”

Tywin snorted, “My wife is a guarded person.”

“I see. Does she have a lady friend she might open up to?”

An irate glare was Jeran’s answer.

“I see. Well, ehm, I understand your wife’s schedule is rather full, but perhaps, with your permission, I will meet with her once each sennight in private. I cannot promise it will help but I will do my best.”

The man appraised him for long seconds, “That is acceptable, Maester Lantell. My wife’s mental and physical health are of utmost concern to me. I want to be notified immediately if any aspect of her health gives you concern, no matter how inconsequential it may seem.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“You are dismissed, maester.”

When Jeran stepped into the hallway he breathed a sigh of relief. He did not know what to expect from the meeting, but the fact that he hadn’t been reprimanded or relieved of his position felt like an accomplishment.


	38. Dessert

**Sandor**

“This is unacceptable. It has been a fortnight since my last visit; the conditions have not improved,” the little bird was dressing down the much older headmistress who ran one of the orphanages in King’s Landing.

“My lady, we had an influx of children a sennight ago after a pox outbreak in a nearby village took many of the parents.”

“I understand, Mistress Weaver, but I left _explicit_ instructions for you to send word if you foresaw any impediments to achieving your objectives. Did you not foresee this _influx_ as an impediment?”

The woman clenched her jaw, “I was rather busy tending to the children. I had no time to send a message to you.”

“Then you are understaffed?”

“We make do, my lady.”

“Please answer with a ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

The woman sighed, “Yes, we are understaffed.”

“Thank you for your candor. I shall have a solution to this issue shortly.” With a swirl of gray skirts the little bird was headed out the door.

“Where to, my lady?” Brax asked. He and Sandor along with six Redcloaks escorted Sansa every time she left the Red Keep, which was quite often given her new appointment. Sandor hated it. Every where he looked was some filthy peasant that coveted Sansa’s body or her gold. Luckily eight mounted and armored guards had been deterrent enough thus far, but Sandor knew a simple mistake could change their luck.

“You remember the women’s poorhouse near the smith?” Sansa responded to Brax’s question.

“Of course, my lady,” Brax and Sandor led the procession through the filthy streets. Sansa rode behind them on her gray mare, a gift from her husband. There were two guards behind her and on each side. Typically when Sansa had to enter a building either Sandor or Brax would accompany her along with three guards, while the other stood outside with the remaining guards.

Sansa strode into the poorhouse like she owned it – which maybe she did, through her husband, Sandor mused.

“Headmaster Teague, I need to address the ladies, please, then I’ll need to confer with you in private.

The aging man called the attention of the women who were currently eating their midday meal. Most noticed Sansa and looked either suspicious or resentful, though a few faces looked attentive and polite.

Sansa projected her voice, “I apologize for the intrusion, ladies. Any of you who have experience caring for young children – your own children, siblings, cousins, or as a servant, please stand.”

About half of the women stood up. “Of those standing, if you do _not_ possess any of the following skills, please sit: cooking, sewing, arithmetic, reading.”

About a third of the women sat down.

_Can’t even cook. No wonder you’re here you useless hens._

“Of those standing, please raise your hand when I call out your skill…” Sansa repeated the four skills to the ten women still standing. Eight could cook, three could sew, and only one claimed to know her letters and numbers.

Sansa took the headmaster aside, “Of these ten women, are any of them known to be violent or untrustworthy?”

The man pointed out three of the women discreetly. Sansa summoned the other seven women.

“I am offering each of you employment at a local orphanage as a caretaker for the children, and to assist the existing staff with anything they ask of you. You will live and eat there instead of here and be given one copper per day as a salary, with the potential to earn more if the headmistress is pleased with your service and temperament. Do any of you wish to accept this offer?”

All seven nodded vigorously.

Twenty minutes later they were back in the orphanage and the headmistress’ eyes went wide at Sansa walking in with seven disheveled but proud-looking women in her wake. After recovering from her stupor the woman began talking to the recruits and assigning various tasks while Sansa took aside the young lady who claimed to know her letters and numbers. She told Sansa her name was Ranel. She was orphaned at age two and ten and taken in by a neighboring farmer whose intentions for her proved to be dishonorable. She sought work in King’s Landing but it seemed every promising job prospect led back to some man who wanted to sell her flesh. She made coin occasionally doing odd jobs for local homeowners and businesses but was robbed on three separate occasions, so could never save up enough money to rent a room where her belongings would be safe. She decided living in the poorhouse was her best option.

“Ranel, I am sorry for your troubles; I cannot even fathom how difficult life has been for you, but I hope I can make it easier. You say you know your letters and numbers?”

Ranel nodded proudly. Sansa had her demonstrate her abilities and sure enough, the girl could read, write, add, subtract, and multiply.

“Ranel, I would like you to begin teaching the other children. Start with a small group of those children who show the greatest aptitude. Once they are competent, they can begin training the other children under your supervision. Children who show no aptitude for learning can be dismissed from your lessons and instead will be taught sewing or cooking by the other ladies who accompanied you here. You keep track of which child is receiving which type of training, and from which lady. Do you understand?”

Ranel’s eyes went wide. Sansa smiled, “Start slow, Ranel, I don’t expect all of this to be done overnight. Perhaps within a sennight you’ll get to know the children enough to know what each’s level of intelligence may be, and you can begin the lessons with your chosen group the following sennight. I will have a chalkboard sent over.

Ranel nodded, “I’ll do my best, m’lady.”

“I’m sure you will. I don’t expect them to become maesters, Ranel… just focus the basics.”

“Of course, m’lady.”

As they walked back out to join the rest of their party Sandor grumbled, “If you want to do them a favor, you’ll teach them how to fire a bow or swing a sword. A good fighter will never be unemployed.”

“Many of the orphans are girls.”

“Aye, teach them the sewing and cooking, then.”

“I will. This is just a first step. My plan was to roll out a formal vocational program at all the poorhouses and educational program at all the orphanages. Teach young and old alike employable skills. Unfortunately, during my initial inspections, I found that the institutions are not ready for that; they’re struggling to provide even basic necessities such as food and clean water. I cannot ask them to begin training or educating their residents when they can’t even feed them!”

She was clearly frustrated by her inability to solve all these problems at once. As they rode back to the keep, he could tell she was disheartened. He switched position with the guard to her left so he could speak with her, “So, my lady, tell me what skills you will teach the mongrels, once their basic needs have been tended to.”

“Well, _Ser_ , you’ll be pleased to know I do intend to have some of the boys and men instructed in combat skills. This will help gain the financial support of those donors who wish to see the Crown’s army reinforced. Hunting, farming, and fishing are other trades I’d _like_ to teach but that will be difficult because it requires hands-on, in-the-field instruction. Perhaps some type of apprenticeship program can be worked out… I’m not sure yet. Women will be taught the skills required to gain employment as a seamstress, cook, or maid.”

“Mmm, makes sense. Speaking of _financial support_ – how have you been funding this so far?”

She blushed and smirked, “Well, now that I’m officially a Lannister, I… _excrete_ gold… didn’t you know?”

Sandor threw his head back and laughed, “No more wildflowers, then?”

The other guards looked at him, but he cared not. His lady wasn’t offended; it wasn’t their job to get offended on her behalf. He snarled to all of them, “Keep your eyes on the perimeter, you useless cunts.”

Sandor directed his words at Sansa again, “Really though, is your lord husband more generous than I’ve been led to believe?”

“As a matter of fact, he _is_ ,” she stated cheekily, “Though his son Tyrion is also, as are the Tyrells and, well, a certain lady who enjoys spending her Frey husband’s money.”

“No! Lady Genna?”

Sansa nodded one time.

“Hah! Well, I guess that’s one way for you to stick it to the Freys.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I bear no ill will toward the Freys, they are quite loyal to the crown and to my lord husband.”

“Mmhmm.” He doubted she had to maintain such a lie anymore, but it was wise of her to err on the side of caution.

“So the Imp, eh? Spending his _daddy’s_ money or the crown’s?”

“Lord Tyrion earns a generous salary as the Maester of Coin, and he has made very wise investments over the years, so I’ve learned.”

“Investments into what? Wineries and brothels?”

“I chose not to inquire; all that matters to me is that my good-son is quite generous and very committed to seeing the revitalization of King’s Landing.”

Sandor couldn’t help but be impressed by all she had accomplished and all she aspired to. He felt proud of her despite rebuking himself for the soft emotion.

He didn’t realize he had been staring at her until he caught Brax’s eyes as the man turned his head a quarter turn in Sandor’s direction. The smirk on his face was unmistakable.

_Fuck, dog, keep your eyes on the perimeter._

**Sansa**

_I am a wolf. I am a lion._

It was Sansa’s first day attending Lady Margaery’s _“court”_ in the gardens since being appointed as the Master of Welfare. Sansa was far too busy for these bleating sheep, but Tywin insisted she attend at least once per sennight to keep abreast of the latest news and gossip. She admitted there were a few valid reasons to attend but that didn’t make sitting through the affair any more tolerable.

 _How is it I used to_ want _to be here?_

Unsurprisingly, today’s featured topic was Sansa herself – more specifically, her new position. Only Lady Genna and Lady Dorna were supportive of her. The others spoke of Sansa’s “job” as if it were tantamount to prostitution. They couldn’t believe the Great Lion “made his wife work”. They couldn’t understand why Sansa accepted the appointment. They couldn’t understand why the other council members accepted a woman to their ranks. Sansa was, of course, ready to defend herself and her husband but could barely get a word in edgewise. Each time she began to explain how fulfilling she found her work to be, someone interrupted her to make some ignorant and trivial comment.

_“Those poorhouses are nothing more than low-end brothels, everyone knows that.”_

_“You won’t be able to teach any of those children to read! Their minds are not suited to it.”_

_“Feeding the poor should be the duty of the Faith; why should the Crown be involved?”_

Margaery was less critical than the others, and looked at Sansa with sympathy, but she seemed unwilling to speak up in front of all the other ladies.

_Some queen you’ll make; at least Cersei didn’t care what others thought of her, I can say that much for her..._

The women were not just berating Sansa but bickering with each other, each claiming to know more about the true conditions in the poor sections of King’s Landing, or the real root cause of poverty – some claimed it was laziness, others blamed the war and said the problem would correct itself soon enough. Similarly they argued over Sansa herself – astonished that, as a member of the Small Council, she was able to influence the King’s rulings and – _Gods forbid –_ collect a man’s salary. The concept was so scandalous to some of the older ladies that they actually blushed and fanned themselves, as if Sansa had lifted her skirts to reveal a man’s cock!

Sansa couldn’t take another moment. Her blood was boiling. She stood up abruptly, immediately commanding everyone’s attention.

“As it so happens, _ladies_ , I choose _not_ to collect my due salary, and instead have it donated directly to the Welfare account. Though there should be no shame in a woman receiving fair pay for her hard work, my husband, the _Lord Hand_ , provides me with everything I could need or want. But I must agree with you on one point – it is shocking that the council accepted a woman to their group, for if any of them had ever witnessed such a display of pettiness, ignorance, and unseemliness as I am seeing right now, they’d be convinced that _no woman_ was qualified for such an important position!”

Sansa was surrounded by gaping mouths and eyes, but she couldn’t stop herself, “In fact, do you know what I like best about my position? It is that I get to engage in an intellectually stimulating discussion with a group of men I respect. By contrast, I rather feel that I will leave this _garden party_ with less sense than I came in with if I dare to listen to any more of your squawking! We are the ladies of the Royal Court – we are supposed to represent the pinnacle of sophistication, education, and good breeding – but I would find better company in the women in those poorhouses that you so disparage.”

Without giving them an opportunity for retort she walked quickly toward the exit of the gardens, not even giving her customary curtsy to Margaery who technically would not outrank Sansa until after her marriage to Tommen.

She was so angry she stormed right past Sandor and Andre.

“My lady,” Andre asked, “Is something amiss?”

“No, Ser Andre. Everything is just as it should be!”

But halfway back to the Tower of the Hand her confidence wavered, and panic crept into her veins.

_Damn! When Tywin learns of this…_

She had stopped dead in her tracks and Sandor and Andre were staring at her in confusion.

_Every one of those ladies, their fathers, their husbands, will be complaining to Tywin about his wife’s abhorrent behavior! They will waste so much of his time and he’ll have only me to blame._

Sansa put a hand to her chest, certain her heart would beat right out of its cage. Her other hand covered her mouth as bile rose in her throat. “Oh, nonono!” she mumbled through her hand, shaking her head.

“What happened?” Sandor demanded.

“Nonononono…”

Sandor took her by the elbow and led her to a bench several paces away. He sat beside her while Andre stood in front of them.

“I think I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Sansa whispered. Oh how she wished her dilemma was a physical object so Andre and Sandor could chop it to pieces before her eyes.

She recounted her tirade from the garden to both of them even though she knew they could offer no help. When she was done repeating as many of the words as she could remember, they both stared at her in disbelief.

And then, in unison, they laughed.

“Well I’m glad to amuse you – at least some good can come from my peril!”

“What peril, little bird?” Sandor asked. He sometimes allowed himself to use the nickname when only Andre was with them.

“My lord husband is going to kill me! Or at least remove me from my position. He’ll need to do something to show he takes their complaints seriously!”

“Whose complaints?” Andre asked.

“The ladies, of course. I’m surprised they’re not marching to his solar as we speak. They’re probably still recovering from their shock but once they have, they’ll be pounding on his door demanding my head!”

“I think you’re being a bit dramatic, little bird.”

“I told them, in so many words, that they had less grace than a lowly whore!”

The men chuckled again.

“Oh you two are as useless as a lantern under water!” she rose again to walk, but they quickly caught up.

“Where are you going my lady?” Andre inquired.

“I must speak to my husband before anyone else does. Perhaps if he hears it from me it will be more… palatable.”

**Tywin**

Tywin had seen many sides of his wife: angry, sad, happy, vacant, confused, shocked, amused… but as she stood before him now wringing her hands, he was fairly certain he’d never seen this particular side of her. She was _nervous_. She was _embarrassed._

He didn’t like it one bit.

She confessed all that transpired at Margaery’s court, and was practically begging Tywin for leniency. He was surprised she didn’t ask to be sent to the Black Cells – so severe did she think her crime.

Eventually he interrupted her, “This is not a good look on you, wife.”

She furrowed her brow, “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“ _Groveling_.”

“I- I only know that this will reflect poorly on you and—"

“How will it reflect poorly on me?”

“That your wife was rude and—”

“You mean that my wife does not suffer fools?”

“My lord, they are ladies of court! One of them is the future queen!”

“Good. Let _the queen_ know there is a lioness within her court. Let her remember it if she ever thinks to manipulate that lioness’ grandson.”

“But Tywin, how can I ever _return_ to her court? She would reject me or ostracize me. And if she didn’t, I could never return anyway… I’d be mortified!”

“Those clucking hens are the only ones who should be mortified. They openly insulted the Hand of the King and his wife, not to mention the entire small council. King Tommen supported your appointment – so I supposed they spoke ill of their king as well.”

Her eyes widened at the realization that his words were true.

“No, my dear wife. You’ll go back to court next week, and you’ll walk in there with your head high and your claws out. Let them beg _your_ forgiveness.”

“Tywin,” she breathed. She seemed to have more to say but instead she pulled his mouth down to hers for a scorching kiss. Minutes passed in a daze and before he knew it, he was leaning against the windowsill, pants around his ankles, as his wife sucked him into a state of delirium. His knees buckled when he spent himself in her mouth, her beautiful little mouth that could spar with the best of them.

After wiping her lips on his handkerchief she pulled his pants up and buttoned them, giving him time to recover from his whirlwind of bliss. She smoothed her skirts and hair and took a step back just as the door swung open.

“Oh,” Genna looked the couple up and down, “Goodsister, I didn’t expect to find you here. Is everything well?”

Sansa smiled, “It’s alright, Lady Genna, I’ve told him. I’ll leave you to your business with your brother.”

Tywin’s face reddened, “Yes, Lady Genna… your brother, _the Hand of the King_ , who demands all visitors be announced. Or at least bloody knock before entering… for God’s sake, woman.”

“Calm down, Ty, I just came to make sure you knew that whatever those pigeons have to say, they were in the wrong, and your little lioness was in the right.”

“I’ve reached the same conclusion, sister.”

“Ah, then you’re smarter than you look brother,” Genna teased, “Well, I’ll leave you lovebirds to… _whatever_ you were doing.” With a wink she exited as quickly as she’d entered.

Sansa cleared her throat. Now that her lust spell was broken, she felt rather embarrassed by her unladylike behavior, “Yes, well, I shall leave as well. I’ll see you for the evening meal, husband.”

She turned to leave but he caught her elbow, “I look forward to it wife… particularly my dessert,” a nibble at her jaw told her exactly what he’d be feasting on.


	39. News from the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just have to say I can't believe how wonderful everyone is with commenting and leaving kudos. I am shocked by how many TySan fans there are and flattered to hear some who say they never really cared for the pairing until they started reading my fic. 
> 
> You guys are awesome and I love reading your comments!

**Jeran**

A moon after beginning what he referred to as ‘private counsel’ sessions with Lady Sansa, Jeran would have been a fool not to notice clear patterns in what was plaguing his lady. She recounted dreams that almost always had elements of being betrayed or failed by someone who should have protected her. In the earliest dreams she described she was being threatened or attacked while her husband, guards, good-sons or all of them together did nothing to intervene. Jeran asked Sansa about her time in the capital before marrying Lord Lannister and was shocked to discover that she was not just mistreated, but that it was often done so publicly, and with no one speaking or acting to put an end to it. During the early sessions, Jeran wasn’t quite sure what he should say, if anything, to soothe his lady, so he simply let her speak. Of course, the first session was spent simply convincing her it was safe to do so, that he would tell no one of her thoughts and dreams, and that he would not judge her. Once she deemed him trustworthy the words came pouring out, and he believed the experience was cathartic for the young woman who had spent years guarding her tongue so vigilantly.

He measured success by the reduced frequency of her nightmares and the fact that she stopped having recurrences of the same dream after they spoke about it and the underlying memories that likely inspired it.

In the fifth week, however, Sansa seemed to regress. She admitted to Jeran that she slept little the past week, waking up haunted by her dreams. She hadn’t told her husband, not wanting to disturb his sleep. When Jeran pressed for details Sansa was uncharacteristically tight-lipped, making only vague references to feelings of guilt and inadequacy, and sorrow over the loss of her family. This was enough for Jeran to piece together what he thought might be troubling her of late.

“Lady Sansa, you are the last Stark. I imagine that puts quite a bit of pressure on you to carry on your family legacy.”

She looked at him suspiciously then lowered her eyes and nodded.

“How does it make you feel?”

She only stared out the window.

Jeran sighed, “I would imagine, being a young woman, it is a difficult responsibility. Perhaps part of you wishes that one of your brothers had survived… instead of you.”

Her eyes widened, “Yes! It makes no sense that I should survive instead of them! Robb was so strong. Bran, Rickon – all of them. Even my sister Arya. I am the least qualified to carry on the Stark legacy. I don’t even _look_ like a Stark! My children won’t inherit the northern look. I know that’s a silly thing to worry about but…” her cheeks turned rosy.

“It’s not silly. It’s natural for parents to want to see themselves in their children. In your case, you hope to see some of your father or sister or brothers.”

She nodded sadly.

“Though, with all due respect to your siblings, I think you underestimate yourself. I’ve heard that you’ve been quite a welcome addition to the small council. And, judging by what you’ve endured in your time in the capital, I think you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

She looked to the window again, “Perhaps I want to be a different kind of strong. A fighter.”

“You are a fighter, Lady Sansa, even if you don’t fight with a sword.”

The reticence in her eyes told him that he would not make more progress on the subject, but Jeran hoped she had heard his words and that eventually their meaning would sink in.

**Sansa**

Sansa had to hide her excitement during each of the small council meetings. All her fellow members were stoic – following the lead set by her husband. Of course Tyrion would occasionally Jape, and Mace Tyrell could be rather lighthearted at times, but the meetings were all business. After more than a month on the council Sansa still couldn’t believe she was a part of it. Even more miraculous was that they all seemed to genuinely respect her and listen to her ideas, even outside her domain of Welfare. Of course, she didn’t test their patience by speaking about military matters, though she could offer insight into the dynamics between the Houses of the Riverlands and North – regions none of the other council members were intimately familiar with. Her knowledge was outdated of course, but ancient familial grudges or friendships tended not to vanish overnight; even so she only spoke up on such matters when asked for her opinion.

Such was the case during one meeting in which Lord Varys delivered troubling news from the North. Sansa felt all eyes flicker to her, but she kept hers fixed on the portly Master of Whispers. He spoke of a rumor that Lord Roose Bolton had been killed by his recently legitimized son, Ramsay, who then took Roose’s place as Lord of Winterfell. Tywin visibly bristled; he (through Joffrey) had named Roose Bolton as Warden of the North. An act against Roose was an act against Tywin and the Crown.

Tywin narrowed his eyes and addressed Sansa specifically, “Let’s assume this rumor is true; what do you know of this Ramsay Bolton?”

Sansa shook her head, “I only knew him as Ramsay Snow. He was of an age with me, perhaps a bit older. His father did not treat him as kindly as my father treated his own baseborn son, Jon Snow, but perhaps that had changed after he proved himself valuable by ridding Winterfell of the Ironborn. I can only tell you that during a feast at Winterfell my father once cautioned me and my sister to keep a wide berth of all the Bolton men, but he seemed to single out Ramsay in particular. My father would not provide details, but Theon later told us that Ramsay was a cruel boy who took pleasure in hurting animals and even servants. Of course, Theon could have been exaggerating; he enjoyed teasing and frightening us.”

Tywin nodded, “Do you think the North would follow this Ramsay _Bolton?_ Would he be able to rally the Northerners against the South?”

“There is no love or respect for the Boltons in the North – only fear. Their loyalty to House Stark is relatively new and—”

Sansa was interrupted by Maester Pycelle, “New? Bah… A thousand years they’ve been sworn to the Starks.”

Sansa ignored his condescending tone, “That is new, by northern standards. Starks have held the north for eight thousand years. Besides which, the Boltons are known for flaying beloved Starks, not to mention their more recent betrayals. _The North Remembers_ is not just a saying, Maester, it is the truth.” She turned back to Tywin, who looked at her with something akin to pride, “But as I was saying, my lord – no, the Boltons cannot rally the North out of loyalty or love, but they can do so out of fear. Though I dare say winter is not the time they would choose to march their bedraggled armies south.”

“Winter is not yet upon us,” Pycelle interrupted again.

Sansa sighed, “Not upon us, but it is upon _them_. If this Ramsay did kill his own father and intends to unite the north against the south, he chose a good time to do so. Because just as the north cannot march on you, you cannot march on the north.”

This time it was Garlan Tyrell – the newest member of the council - who spoke up, but in a more respectful tone than Pycelle, “Forgive me, my lady, why could we not march on the north? It seems that attacking now, _before_ they’ve had a chance to reinforce their armies would be wise.”

“As a rule, Ser Garlan, yes. But the snows will be deep above Moat Cailin, and deeper yet as far north as Winterfell and the Dreadfort. You’d lose half your men and animals to the elements; the Northmen wouldn’t need to fire a single arrow to defeat you.”

Garlan shrugged, “But couldn’t we storm the castle? We have a significant advantage in numbers… We could sail north to minimize the strain on the men, sack Winterfell and the Dreadfort.”

“Winterfell has never fallen, Ser. The only reason the Ironborn took it was because the guard remaining behind during the war was inadequate. My father once said that 500 men can hold Winterfell against 10,000, and he was not a man prone to hyperbole or arrogance, I assure you. The Dreadfort may be even more impenetrable. Add to that the fear that will be instilled in your men when they see the bodies of men and women flayed alive adorning the battlements…”

Garlan was staring into her eyes in a penetrating way. She did not break his gaze; she would not let this flower knight think he knew more about the North than she did. After several seconds he cracked a smile, “Your knowledge is most impressive, my lady,” he offered, with a respectful nod.

Sansa fought not to roll her eyes. She was speaking in such general terms, not specific battle tactics… was his impression of women so low that he was surprised she knew this much about her own home and lands? As her eyes moved away from Garlan they landed on Tywin, who was fixing her with a scowl that almost made her flinch. Had she said too much?

An uncomfortable silence passed before Tywin continued, “Lord Varys, Kevan, find out everything you can about what’s going on with the Boltons.”

Overcoming her fear over Tywin’s apparent anger, Sansa spoke once more, “My lord, with your permission I shall write to my brother Jon at the Wall. The Night’s Watch will likely know the situation at Winterfell.”

Tywin nodded tightly.

Varys spoke again, “My lords and lady… the news – or _rumor_ – of Roose Bolton’s death was but the first piece of information I had to share. The other rumor is that this Ramsay character has taken a bride – _Arya Stark_.”

Sansa shot up from her seat, fear and excitement warring for her attention. All eyes around the table landed on her. Tyrion placed a hand on her forearm, “Lady Sansa…” he spoke gently.

With a dry tongue Sansa managed to form, “The Boltons captured my sister?”

“No,” Varys shook his head, “Rumor is she made her way to Winterfell and asked for refuge with the Boltons. They agreed to take her in instead of returning her to the capital if she would marry Ramsay.”

“No!” Sansa sat down, now feeling both relief and disappointment wash over her at the realization that this rumor could not possibly be true, “No… that rumor is unfounded, my lord. Arya would never willingly go to Winterfell while it was being held by the Boltons.”

Jaime looked dolefully in Sansa’s eyes, “Perhaps she saw it as the best chance to stay safe – to stay in the North…”

“No; there would be a dozen better options for her – the Wall where our brother lives; the Vale where our Aunt Lysa lives – not to mention northern houses she would trust over the Boltons – the Manderlys, Mormonts, Reeds, Glovers… Even if she hadn’t heard of the Boltons’ role in killing our brother and mother they would not be her choice. Her and I took my father’s warnings to heart. And if, through some manner of desperation, she had no choice but to go to Winterfell, she would never consent to marrying Ramsay Bolton. I assure you. And if she were forced to marry him, you’d be hearing about _his_ death today, not his father’s.”

Tyrion and Jaime chuckled – both obviously remembering Sansa’s feisty little sister.

“How certain are you, my lady?” Tywin asked.

“I’d stake my life on it,” Sansa snorted to herself, realizing that might not sound like much.

Tywin’s jaw tightened but he looked back to Varys, “I’m inclined to believe the first rumor, but not the second. Until you can get confirmation, let’s operate under the assumption that Ramsay Bolton has named himself Lord of Winterfell, but that he does not have a Stark bride to help him secure the people’s loyalty.” He then turned his attention to Jaime and Garlan, who sat next to each other at the table, “Let’s also assume that the North will not make any offensive moves until the next spring, but that they will begin _preparing_ to do just that. Once we have more information we will work to decide how, if at all, to deal with the new Lord Bolton…”

Tywin called the meeting to a close but stayed behind with his brother Kevan. Sansa walked out beside Tyrion and they began walking down the hall side-by-side. Tyrion was about to say something when the smooth voice of Garlan Tyrell called out to them. Sansa turned and responded, “Ser Garlan, is there something we can do for you?”

“I hope so, my lady, though I fear it might be in poor taste to ask favors of the lady wife of the Lord Hand.”

“Well ask what you will, Ser, I’ll let you know whether the request is _tasteful_ or not,” Sansa japed.

Garlan beamed back at her, revealing straight white teeth. Garlan was as handsome as his younger brother Loras but taller and broader. He was of similar build to Ser Jaime but with brown hair and eyes – not as dark as Sandor but darker than Loras. Sansa had met Garlan’s wife Leonette when she briefly lived in King’s Landing with Margaery Tyrell. She was a pretty but delicate woman and was frequently ill. She eventually returned to her and Garlan’s home, Brightwater Keep, when Maester Pycelle suggested that the air in King’s Landing didn’t agree with her. Sansa could relate – having come from the rural north, it took her much time to get used to the dirty streets and stuffy air of King’s Landing.

“Thank you, my lady… I’ve recently come to realize that my knowledge of the great northern kingdom is rather lacking,” he spoke in a self-mocking tone, “I’d like to learn more of your homeland, especially what you know of the coastal towns and castles. As the new master of ships I think I should know at least this much.”

“I fear I can’t tell you anything that you couldn’t easily find in the library,” she countered.

“Perhaps not, my lady, though I’ve always learned better by listening to stories than by reading,” he blushed. Tyrion seemed to take this as a good opportunity to leave, as he bowed to Sansa and headed off in the direction of his chambers.

Sansa turned back to Garlan, “I understand, Ser. My younger siblings were similar. They, like you, were more physically inclined – always going on adventures, swinging wooden swords, practicing archery… I think sitting still to read a book was rather boring to them.”

Garlan smiled, “Exactly so. In fact, if you’d agree to share your knowledge with me, I’d be quite pleased to have our _lessons_ outdoors – perhaps a stroll through the gardens would be to your liking? With your husband’s permission, of course.”

Sansa was glad Garlan mentioned Tywin or else she may have suspected he was being over-friendly. However, knowing that Garlan was married made Sansa felt more comfortable agreeing to help him.

“I don’t need my husband’s permission, but of course I shall let him know. However my schedule leaves little time for strolls through the garden. Two days each week I ride out to visit the orphanages and poorhouses. If your schedule permits it, you may join me on one of these outings and you can ask me about the north.”

Garlan looked at her with a curious smile.

“Is that not agreeable to you, Ser?”

“It’s quite agreeable, my lady, I’m just… surprised _._ Or perhaps, impressed is a better word. I can see now why you and Margaery are friends.”

Sansa had to hide her surprise. Though she was part of Margaery’s court, she didn’t think Margaery considered her a friend over any other lady. Especially after Sansa’s outburst some weeks back.

Unsure how to answer Sansa tried to end the conversation, “Well, Ser Andre can fill you in on my schedule and you can let him know when you’d like to join us.”

Garlan smiled at Sansa’s guard, who was waiting patiently to walk her back to the Tower of the Hand. Garlan said he’d find Ser Andre later in the dining hall and with a bow to Sansa, set off at an energetic pace in the opposite direction that Sansa had been heading.

…

> _“Mother!” Sansa called across the courtyard to where her mother was walking with Lady Genna and Lady Dorna. Dorna and Genna were laughing, but Catelyn looked bored – or perhaps angry. But nothing could dampen Sansa’s spirits this day, and she couldn’t wait to share her joy with her mother._
> 
> _“Mother!” Sansa called again. This time Catelyn looked up at her but did not smile._
> 
> _“I’ve just come from Maester Jeran, mother. He confirmed my suspicion – I’m with child!” Sansa was practically jumping for joy, but her mother’s face went pale._
> 
> _Sansa stilled, suddenly frightened of the intensity in her mother’s eyes. Catelyn was staring at Sansa’s belly, which was still flat. “How dare you!” she growled, stepping closer to Sansa._
> 
> _“Mother, what do you mean?”_
> 
> _“How DARE you?”_
> 
> _Suddenly Tywin was at Sansa’s side, and her mother’s eyes looked up to him and narrowed, “My child! What have you done to my sweet child?”_
> 
> _“Mother please!” Sansa pleaded, but her voice sounded high-pitched and childlike._
> 
> _“You put a monster in my girl – my sweet girl!” Catelyn yelled at Tywin, but he said nothing. He looked completely unbothered and unsurprised by her mother’s rash behavior._
> 
> _“Tywin is my husband, mother, you cannot—” Sansa tried to defend him but quick as a snack Catelyn launched herself at Sansa, kicking and punching her belly. Sansa dropped to the ground and lay in fetal position to block the blows as well as she could. She dared to look up at Tywin, but he was only staring down at her with disinterest, no more invested than he’d be in watching two young squires spar._
> 
> _“Tywin stop her, please!” Sansa screamed_
> 
> _“Tywin please!” she repeated the plea over and over again, but he only watched with a blank stare as her mother pummeled her mercilessly._
> 
> _Finally she got a reaction, but not a helpful one. He rolled his eyes and said, “Sansa, I’m here.”_
> 
> _“I know you’re here, but you’re not doing anything!”_
> 
> _He shook his head in admonishment, “Sansa, wake up.”_
> 
> _“Please Tywin.”_
> 
> _“Wake up,” he repeated with impatience. Sansa was so confused. Why wasn’t he helping? Why was he telling her to wake up?_
> 
> _Her mother must have slapped her, for suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her cheek followed quickly by Tywin shouting at her to wake up._

“Sansa! Wake up!”

Her eyes snapped open and she immediately cradled her belly protectively but there was no one hitting her anymore, just Tywin staring down at her with a frightened look in his eye and Maester Jeran looking completely bewildered.

Consciousness gradually overtook her senses, “It was a dream?!” she cried out, euphoric to have escaped the nightmare.

Tywin let out a sigh of relief and pulled her into his arms, “Yes, my love. A terrible one. I had to call the maester, you wouldn’t wake up.”

“I’m sorry Tywin,” she whispered.

He pulled away to look in her eyes, “There is nothing to apologize for.”

Maester Jeran looked at her kindly, “Do you want to talk about it, my lady?”

Sansa was mortified that the words came pouring out of her mouth uncensored, “It was horrible, the worst one yet! You told me I was pregnant, and I thought my mother would be happy, but she attacked me. She was trying to kill the babe because she said it was a monster. And Tywin didn’t even try to stop her!” Sansa could hear the impertinence in her voice but couldn’t contain it.

Maester Jeran cleared his throat, “Right, well I think you should take a drop of sweetsleep.”

Sansa nodded eagerly, knowing it would be the only way to find sleep again this night.

After the maester left she sank into bed and Tywin pulled her against his chest, “Little wife, it’s getting hard not to take this personally,” his light tone told her he wasn’t truly offended, “in all your dreams I’m even less useful than a housecat.”

She chuckled, “Oh, Tywin, I swear I don’t _really_ think that! I know you would protect me. It’s just—oh it’s so dreadful how real the dreams feel!”

“Hush now, Sansa. It’s over.”

She nodded into his warmth and pressed her lips to the place above his heart, “Thank you, Tywin.”

“For what?”

“For not insisting we sleep in separate chambers. I know I’m disturbing your sleep, but I’d be so frightened if I woke up and you weren’t there.”

An odd grunt came through Tywin’s throat, but he spoke again in jest, “Don’t think me so noble, wife. I’m just a greedy old man who likes sleeping next to a beautiful young woman.”

Sansa yawned, “Well, I suppose it’s a win-win.”

Tywin’s chuckle was the last thing Sansa heard before falling into a very sweet sleep.


	40. Best Laid Plans...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Kevan POV takes place immediately following the small council meeting in Chapter 39; Tywin POV is the next morning
> 
> Sorry for the delay in posting a new chapter. I was in a groove with my JaimSanSan fic, not to mention RL getting in the way (stupid work and adult responsibilities, sheesh). 
> 
> Further, I was at a point in Unlikely Saviors where I had to decide the direction of the rest of the story - easy, fluffy life for Sanwin... or watching Tywin and Sansa play the game like a couple of grand masters, even if it will mean angst, danger, and possible heartache. 
> 
> As you'll see very quickly, I chose the latter - but have no fear lovely readers, there will be plenty of Sansa/Tywin smut and fluff... :)

**Kevan**

“Fucking Boltons,” Tywin was seething. Kevan could see he was using much effort to not raise his voice.

Kevan knew his brother’s countenance and vocabulary better than anyone. This wasn’t Tywin simply mad because the Boltons were unpredictable. This was Tywin mad because something had not gone according to plan. Kevan truly didn’t want to know, but knew he was his brother’s only confidante in such matters.

With a resigned sigh Kevan asked, “What did you do?”

Tywin looked annoyed but not surprised that Kevan suspected him of scheming.

“I’ve had troubling news from the North. Roose Bolton’s grip was weakening rapidly. Though many of the northern lords were unhappy about Robb Stark breaking his promise to Walder Frey, they didn’t think he and his wife and mother deserved to die for it – at a wedding, no less,” Tywin sighed and steepled his fingers.

Kevan felt confused, “You conspired with this Ramsay Bolton to kill his own father? Did you think an act of kinslaying would strengthen the people’s love for him?”

“No,” Tywin stated emphatically, “There was word that the Glovers, Mormonts, Umbers, and likely other families, were uniting against the Boltons. Even more troubling, that they were committing to _Stannis Baratheon_ , who is camped at the wall… and who is apparently harder to kill than a fucking Clegane.”

Kevan shook his head, “So I ask again, brother: what did you do?”

Tywin huffed, “The Boltons needed a stronger claim on Winterfell. Stannis was trying to unite the northern forces against them, and ultimately against King Tommen, no doubt, using Ned Stark’s bastard, Jon Snow. Though by all indications, Snow has no interest in ruling.”

Kevan was starting to see where this was going, “At the Small Council meeting, you spoke as if the Boltons are the threat – that they could rally the northern banners and march on the south. You even questioned your wife about it at length!”

Tywin’s cheeks reddened – a rare occurrence – as he stood to lean over his brother, “We don’t need everyone in the realm knowing Stannis is in a good position to take the north and ultimately march on the south. If there are rumors floating around, let them be that the north is divided. Which it is.”

“At the moment,” Kevan added.

“Yes.”

Kevan nodded, “And you tried to unite it – behind the Boltons and against Stannis.”

Tywin’s only response was a nod.

“By giving them Arya Stark? You had her this entire time?” Kevan found that hard to believe.

Tywin sighed for what may have been the hundredth time in ten minutes, “No. It wasn’t Arya Stark... It came to my attention after Littlefinger’s arrest and execution that he had in his _possession_ a certain northern girl, with the Stark look. The girl was quite eager to leave the capital, willing to pretend to be Arya Stark to do so. Tommen legitimized the Bolton bastard and the girl was sent to be his bride.”

Kevan poured himself a goblet of wine, not caring that it was too early in the day, “You thought the northern families would unite behind Roose Bolton with a trueborn Stark married to his heir…”

Tywin nodded one time, “And moreover, wouldn’t rise up _against_ him knowing that it might endanger their _princess_. Gods, the northern admiration of the Starks borders on _worship_.”

Kevan could only shake his head, “And yet you have your own Stark. The eldest living Stark. Why not—”

“A Stark who is married to me, _Tywin Lannister_. The wounds of the war are too fresh, the Lannister name too despised north of the Moat… do you think they’d rally around her?”

“I think you underestimate your wife.”

Tywin snorted derisively, “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps Sansa could convince _all_ the northerners to unite behind Roose Bolton until our heir comes of age. Perhaps she could convince them to stand with House Lannister and the Crown against Stannis Baratheon. But that would require _sending_ my wife north. Do you take me for a fool?”

“Is it your wife or the northerners you distrust?”

Tywin, who’d been leaning over the table on his knuckles up to this point, stood up straight, tugged at his doublet, and for a moment Kevan thought he would walk out. But he didn’t. He didn’t move or speak.

Kevan put his palms out in supplication, “Fine. I understand. What of this Stark imposter? And of Ramsay killing Roose – I assume that wasn’t part of your plan?”

Tywin shook his head, “Apparently the bastard is even less predictable than his sire. Though whether he and his _Stark_ bride are able to unify the North against Stannis or not is, at this point, a toss of the coin.”

“There’s something I don’t understand Ty… why have Varys reveal this news at the small council? Lady Sansa effectively convinced everyone in the council that this girl is _not_ Arya Stark, and you agreed with her! Does that not go against your entire plan?”

Tywin wiped a hand down his face, “I intended to tell her of my scheme with the Boltons… just never got around to it. How the fuck Varys heard about it so quickly is a mystery. By my estimation the girl arrived at Winterfell less than a sennight ago… besides, I don’t need the Small Council believing she is Arya Stark, only the northerners.”

Kevan of course heard what Tywin wasn’t saying, and he couldn’t help but smile.

Tywin arched a brow, “I’m glad this is somehow amusing to you, Kevan. Perhaps you can share the comedic aspect of this situation so I can appreciate it as well.”

“Oh I doubt you’ll find it as amusing as I do… I just find it funny that the fierce lion is afraid of the sweet little she-wolf.”

“I am not _afraid_ of my wife.”

Now it was Kevan’s turn to lift his brow.

“I. Am. Not.” Tywin insisted.

“Then why hadn’t you told her? In fact, why didn’t you tell her _before_ you made this arrangement? Did you not think hearing about her little sister would pain her in some way? Either she’d fear for her safety with the Boltons, or you’d give her false hope to later be crushed!” Kevan didn’t know why he was reacting so strongly; he was well aware of the necessity of such schemes. While he despised the game, he knew how to play it, and had counseled his brother often on the players, potential moves, and risks. Despite knowing his brother only did what he did to try to prevent another war, Kevan couldn’t help but feel like it was a betrayal of Sansa. By the look in Tywin’s eyes, their thoughts were not so disparate.

Tywin sighed – again – and steepled his fingers – again – as he sat down in his chair, “I was going to tell her after it was done. I’ve told my wife I will not lie or withhold things from her; I never said I would seek her blessing or even consult her before making any decisions. Only once it was done…” Tywin didn't finish his thought, and Kevan actually felt for his brother. He was not used to having a partner to consult. He loved Joanna, but she didn’t involve herself in politics, thus Tywin felt no obligation to be transparent with her. Kevan himself was the closest Tywin had to a partner, but Kevan was not stupid – he knew Tywin made moves without his knowledge. In truth, Kevan was glad not to know everything; he often wondered if he’d still be able to respect his brother if he knew every questionable deed he’d ever committed.

Kevan rose and rounded the table to stand beside Tywin, tentatively placing a hand on his shoulder, “She didn’t seem bothered by it. If it were troubling her, it would be a different matter. If you choose not to tell her, I don’t think you need to fear her finding out your involvement. I assume no one else knows?”

A sound came out of Tywin’s throat that was something between a growl and a groan. Kevan knew it meant nothing good.

**Tywin**

Tywin awoke the morning after Sansa’s nightmare feeling disquieted. Despite the words he offered his little wife, the content of her dreams truly was troubling him. By day his wife trusted him to protect her, but some part of her brain clearly expected Tywin to fail or betray her, even though he himself was certain that would never happen.

_But haven’t you already?_

Tywin could not shake away his conversation with Kevan from the previous day. The pitying looks Kevan gave him – the looks that said, “ _You fucked up and now there’s nothing you can do to fix it.”_

Tywin considered confessing all to Sansa last night – that he truly had intended to tell her, but the opportunity never arose. Of course, that would be a lie. They dined together each night, even when they were apart for the entire day. After coupling they laid in bed telling the other about their day, asking the other’s opinion, at times. He had weeks’ worth of opportunities to tell her; telling her the very night Varys spoke of the ‘rumors’ would only make it appear like he never really planned to tell her but had to once Varys had raised the subject.

No, he was past the point of telling her. She didn’t seem overly bothered, as Kevan pointed out. Though admittedly Tywin didn’t see much of her for the rest of the day, and she was unusually exhausted that night – going to sleep immediately after the evening meal.

This morning she departed early with her retinue of guards to inspect the orphanages in Flea Bottom. In the months since Sansa had taken on her role, she was making impressive progress. The conditions at the poorhouses and orphanages had been much improved, and some had commenced vocational training of their residents. It was his wife’s brilliant idea to take some of the more qualified women residing at the poorhouses and employ them at the orphanages. The cost was negligible but the impact great. Today King Tommen and Lady Margaery would join her; Sansa insisted it was time for the smallfolk of the city to associate the King with the charitable initiatives which the Tyrells were already known for. Tywin did not disagree, but a selfish part of him wanted all to recognize his wife as the real force of change for the city’s most impoverished denizens.

When he arrived at his solar, he was surprised to find his eldest son waiting for him. Jaime barely waited for the door to close behind them before making the reason for his visit known, “Father, I don’t appreciate being manipulated in your schemes.”

Tywin knew what this was about but would play dumb for a moment, “Which _scheme_ are you referring to, Jaime, and how do you feel you’ve been manipulated?”

“You know precisely which scheme. You told me you would tell Sansa about the ploy with the _fake_ Arya Stark but judging by her reaction to Varys’ news at yesterday’s council meeting, I can see you have not. Moreover, you assured me that Sansa would be in agreement with the plan, knowing how much she values stability and unity in the north. I can’t help but suspect now that the reason you didn’t inform her of your action is because you doubt she would approve…”

Tywin bristled, “What I share or withhold from my wife is not your concern, though if you must know it was my intent to inform her. Varys unfortunately beat me to it.”

Jaime eyed him with a boldness his son rarely possessed in Tywin’s presence.

“I understand there will be some secrets between man and wife, but in the future, I’d prefer not to be privy to yours. You may not take issue with deceiving your wife, but I find it rather distasteful.”

Tywin snorted, “You seemed quite comfortable being _privy_ to Cersei’s _deceit_ of her late husband. In fact I should rather think you are among the most accomplished secret-keepers in the realm.”

Jaime shook his head. Despite the flush on his cheeks he seemed intent on defending his position, “Robert fucked everything that walked. He didn’t deserve his wife’s loyalty and honesty, nor mine. Nor did…” Jaime cleared his throat, “Nor did the children deserve the fate that would befall them should _those_ secrets have been revealed.”

“So your late King never had your loyalty, but my young wife already does. Yet we’ve been at war with her family for years now. I must say, should Sansa decide to betray us, she’d have an easy time pulling the wool over your eyes, not to mention your brother’s.”

Jaime’s eyes narrowed, “Is _that_ your reasoning? You don’t trust her not to betray the ruse to someone who could act on it… her brother, perhaps, or one of the bannermen still loyal to the Stark name?”

Decades of experience told Tywin his answer should be “yes”, but he felt more certain of Sansa’s loyalty than he had any reason to, and it troubled him. Tywin Lannister was a man who could count on one hand the number of people he trusted implicitly. Two of them were Lannisters – Kevan and Genna; the third was Ser Addam. Even his sons didn’t have his full trust; in Jaime’s case it was because he knew Jaime – despite his reputation – had a surprising sense of honor. In Tyrion’s case it was because Tywin had given him too many reasons to dislike his father over the years. The fact that Sansa was quickly taking her place on his list of trusted confidantes was inexplicable and dangerous.

Despite that, however, he truly _had_ intended to share this particular plan with her, since it involved her sister, in a way. But he could never bring the words to his lips. In truth, Kevan was right: he was afraid of her reaction. Afraid that even if she eventually did see the logic and necessity of his plan, that she would initially oppose it. He didn’t enjoy being in conflict with her for even one minute, another fact that troubled him. When did he care what anyone thought of him? When did a disagreement with someone cause him to lose sleep, or be unfocused on his tasks? Gods, he wanted to laugh at himself… he not only cared what she thought about him, but about what she _dreamed_ about him!

He snapped his attention back to Jaime, who hadn’t spoken another word, “Anything else?”

A huff came through his son’s nostrils, “No, father. And though you didn’t ask, your secret is safe with me, but only because I hope you will tell her the truth yourself; if she hears it from me instead of you it will cause her pain. However, if this _fabrication_ proves to be painful for her, I may be less inclined to secrecy.”

His son bowed and left, leaving Tywin simultaneously annoyed and proud. It would seem that without Cersei’s oppressive presence, his son was finally growing a backbone.


	41. Good Lion

**Sansa**

Sansa begrudgingly admitted that Garlan Tyrell made better company than the king and soon-to-be-queen. Though Tommen and Margaery were kind and generous, the attention they drew made it difficult to accomplish anything productive. Sansa naively thought they would both want to assess the progress being made in Sansa’s domain of Welfare. She thought they may offer some suggestions –Margaery was intelligent and Tommen compassionate. Sansa quickly realized, however, that joining Sansa on her outing had been all about _appearances_ for them – at least for Margaery; Tommen seemed to simply go along with his pretty betrothed’s ideas. Margaery handed out flowers, fruit, and coppers everywhere they stopped. Though certainly the people would benefit at least from the latter two, Sansa was trying to create an _empowered_ citizenship – not a dependent one. She herself would hand out coins, treats, and even clothes she knitted on occasion, but always did so discreetly, behind the closed doors of the orphanages and poorhouses. She didn’t want to attract people who weren’t really needy but simply seeking handouts. Nor did she want to draw unnecessary attention to the coins she carried on her person – that would only invite thieves that her guards would have to fend off. Of course, Tommen and Margaery’s royal escort was a small army, so she didn’t feel much at risk, until she thought of the bread riots. While Joffrey’s death assuaged some of the people’s anger that had come to a boil at the time of the riots, Sansa knew many people viewed Tommen as simply a younger, chubbier version of Joffrey. Until he proved to be otherwise, people had no reason to change their opinion of the youngest Baratheon.

At one point a large crowd had formed as Margaery, wearing a smile that could melt the Wall, threw coins into the streets. Sansa’s heart began to race as she remembered the men clawing at her dress and body after she’d become separated from the royal party on the day of the riots. Now her ears rang and her vision became blurry as she sat atop her horse, watching the crowd swell. She didn’t even realize that Sandor and Andre had positioned their mounts directly next to hers, stirrups almost touching, until she heard Sandor rasp, “Easy little bird.”

She turned to him and finally allowed herself to breathe. She nodded at him and forced a smile – a smile he returned not with a curving of his lips but with a slight softening of his eyes.

Sansa snapped back to the present, realizing Ser Garlan had asked her something, “I’m sorry, Ser?”

Garlan smiled at her knowingly, “I suppose I should take that as a hint that I’m talking too much.”

“Oh,” Sansa blushed, “No… my mind was elsewhere, but I assure you it is not due to the company. Please continue, I believe you were telling me about some of the charitable initiatives your grandmother founded in the Reach.”

“I was indeed; it seems you can daydream and listen at the same time. I admire your mental capacity.”

Sansa chuckled, “Any woman who’s had to sit through a garden party for three hours possesses such abilities… I assure you I’m not unique.”

Garlan cast her an odd look, “I’d disagree with you, but that would be impolite.”

Sansa noticed Sandor twitch almost imperceptibly at Garlan’s words, which only confirmed her suspicion that Garlan was being over-friendly and perhaps even flirtatious. Sansa was about to change the subject when Garlan continued, “Besides, I’ve heard garden parties that have _you_ in attendance are never dull – I doubt the ladies there need to occupy their minds with daydreams.”

“Oh,” Sansa blushed. It had been weeks since her embarrassing outburst at Margaery’s court in the gardens, and she didn’t like being reminded of it.

If Garlan noticed her discomfort he didn’t show it, “Grandmother and Margaery were quite impressed by you.”

“Oh?” it seemed to be all she could say.

Garlan met her eyes again, which felt intense since, as they were riding next to each other, he had to fully turn his head to do so, “Can you keep a secret, my lady?” he spoke conspiratorially.

Sansa was taken aback by his boldness but gave the only honest answer she could, “If it is a secret worth keeping.”

He smiled, “That night at our family dinner, Margaery joked that you’ll have the Old Lion tamed in no time, and Grandmother said her greatest regret might prove to be not making you a Tyrell when she had the chance.”

Sansa knew her cheeks were blazing red, “I’m flattered that they both think highly of me, though I fear their assessments are over-generous.”

Garlan seemed about to protest when they finally arrived at one of the orphanages. Though she felt a bit scandalized by his open praise of her – particularly without her husband present – she could respect Garlan for taking a genuine interest in learning about the programs Sansa had put in place. He was also a natural with the children, speaking to them kindly but not patronizingly. When Sansa explained that some of the older boys would soon begin training with the sword, he beamed at them, “Perhaps I’ll find my new squire here; I’d bet any of these lads would be more dedicated and hardworking than some third-cousin I’ve never met…” Several toothy grins were his response and Sansa couldn’t help but smile proudly herself.

When it was time to leave Sansa felt a gentle tug on her skirts and turned to see a small boy, blushing as he greeted her while looking at his feet. Sansa squatted down, “Yes my good man?”

His eyes flicked to hers briefly, then without a word a hand shot out from behind his back, producing a small wooden figure which looked to have been crudely carved. It took a moment for Sansa to make out that it was supposed to be a wolf. Tears threatened, but she willed them back, “Is this for me?”

The boy nodded.

“It’s lovely. You made it?”

The boy nodded again.

“Then I shall cherish it always. It might be the finest gift anyone’s ever given me.”

The boy finally smiled, and Sansa smiled back, “What’s your name?”

“Mykel.”

“Will you start training with the sword like the other boys, Mykel?”

He shook his head, “Too small.”

“Ahh. Then perhaps you should learn the bow first. My sister Arya was smaller than you when she first learned archery, and in only a few weeks she could best our brother Bran even though he was bigger than her.”

The boy’s eyes lit up, “Really?”

“Yes, sweet boy. And a skilled archer is just as important in a battle, maybe more so, than a swordsman. Isn’t that right, Clegane?”

Sandor nodded without turning, “Aye, and less likely to die,” he rasped.

The boy looked up at Sandor with wide eyes. He barely came up to his waist.

Sandor looked down at him, “And don’t worry about being too small, you’ll grow yet, and anyway being too tall isn’t much fun, either. Feet hang off the bed.”

At that image, Sansa let out a chuckle that was a bit too loud.

Sandor shrugged, “But I suppose some ladies find it amusing, so it’s not all bad.”

Sansa had to cover her mouth to keep more giggles from coming out. As she looked around she found Garlan’s eyes on her, with yet another unreadable but not unkind expression.

As they rode through the gates of the keep that afternoon, Garlan, who’d been oddly quiet since they left the orphanage, cleared his throat, “It seems we spent all day talking about philanthropy and I didn’t ask you a single question about the northern port towns... Perhaps you’ll abide my presence for another outing, when our schedules permit.”

“Of course, Ser Garlan. Your company was most welcome; you were wonderful with the boys – I thank you for that, they need positive attention in their lives.”

He gave her another thoughtful look, then a subtle smile, “I think what you’re doing is wonderful; it was a privilege to be included.” With that he parted ways from their group.

As Sansa laid in her bath that evening, back aching and eyes weary, she finally let her mind wander to the matter that had been begging for her attention for days. Upon hearing the rumor of Arya’s marriage to Ramsay Bolton, Sansa’s initial reaction was to dismiss it outright. Despite Winterfell being Arya’s home, Sansa couldn’t imagine Arya would go there before at least ten other places. But what if she’d been captured somewhere in the north – trying to make it to Jon at the Wall, perhaps… she may have revealed her identity to keep herself from being harmed. Her captors may have brought her to the Boltons to curry favor. But would the Boltons be so brazen as to marry her without obtaining King Tommen’s blessing? Surely, he and Tywin could choose to view this as defiance at best, treason at worst.

A selfish part of Sansa was glad to hear that Ramsay had killed his father. Roose had not just orchestrated but _participated_ in the Red Wedding. A small part of her felt some measure of vengeance had been delivered. Another part of her was glad to be vindicated – she had warned Tywin not that long ago that Roose’s grip was slipping if Theon had somehow escaped his clutches. Perhaps this Ramsay felt his father was somehow jeopardizing their family’s hold on the North and took decisive action to prevent that from happening.

What had Sansa particularly baffled, however, was that the Boltons thought they could secure the North’s loyalty with an imposter of the _younger_ Stark daughter. Even if it were really Arya, Sansa’s own future children would be the indisputable heirs to Winterfell. If Tywin was so inclined, he and Sansa could claim Winterfell whenever they wanted – the Lannister armies were more than capable, and no one would have just cause to refute Sansa’s claim. This realization made Tywin’s behavior at the small council meeting seem odd – he readily agreed with Sansa that this _Arya_ was most likely an imposter yet did not seem eager to prove it to be so. Would Tywin not wish to show the realm that he alone, through his wife, had a claim on Winterfell?

As Sansa donned her robe, she turned this thought over and over in her head until she felt dizzy. She decided she would ask Tywin to explain his logic tonight, though it would be a challenge to stay awake. The evening meal hadn’t even been served and already Sansa felt her eyelids drooping. She wondered if lack of sleep was catching up with her. Her nightmares had waned somewhat, but still robbed her of sleep at least two nights out of every seven. Sansa decided to rest her eyes, just for a little while…

**Tywin**

Tywin was surprised to not find his wife in their dining room. Servants had already delivered their evening meal, but Sansa was nowhere to be seen. He went into their bedroom and couldn’t keep a smile from forming at the sight of his little wife slumped down in a cushioned chair near the fireplace, asleep. He stood in the doorway for several minutes taking in the lovely sight. Her left elbow was crooked on the armrest, her head rested in that hand. The fabric of her robe was wet from her recently washed hair and clung to her breasts. One leg was tucked underneath her, while the other, long, pale, and elegant stretched out before her, fully exposed where her robe had fallen open.

Tywin wondered if he would ever tire of looking upon his wife. He suspected not, as he approached the chair and kneeled before her, tracing his lips up her leg from knee to hip then back down again. After several such journeys she stirred, and Tywin smiled into her soft thigh wondering how she would react. Would she spread her legs and sit back as he pleasured her with his lips and tongue? Would she stand and lead him to the bed, hips swaying with each step?

“Tywin,” she finally spoke.

“Yes my dear? What do you want?” he answered roguishly.

“I want to talk about Ramsay Bolton and _Arya Stark_.”

As quickly as it had formed, Tywin’s lust evaporated, leaving behind only cold dread.

…

Tywin had never seen his wife so angry. Not when Cersei told her about the “plan” to marry her to Jaime; not after Cersei physically attacked her in the throne room. Not when Tywin admitted to his part in the Red Wedding. Tywin felt entirely at her mercy in this moment as he watched her pace back and forth, fury pulsing off of her, cheeks red, eyes dark, chest heaving. He couldn’t hear half of what she was saying – that is, when she spoke at all.

“Do I even want to know what poor girl you sent to be Ramsay Bolton’s _bride?_ ”

Tywin looked down, “I don’t know. She herself claimed to be Arya. I suspect Littlefinger coached her… he probably had some plan for her.”

Sansa stopped moving, “You don’t _know_? How do you know it _wasn’t_ Arya?! You’ve never even met my sister… so help me Tywin if you sent the real Arya—”

“I didn’t,” he rose, “Jaime confirmed that—”

“Jaime!? Jaime saw her? He knew of this, this, this ruse!?”

Tywin could only nod.

“Who else knew? The whole Small Council? Did I sit there and argue my case like a fool, all the while you all knew it wasn’t Arya?”

“No! Only Jaime and I knew.”

“Why, Tywin? Why? Forget that you used my sister’s name in this plot, but what good do you think it will bring?” she was back to crying, “Someday _my_ child is to inherit Winterfell. What if the North decides they’d rather see a “Stark”/Bolton than a Stark/Lannister?”

“That will _not_ happen.”

“How do you know?”

“You are the eldest daughter of Ned Stark. No one would refute your claim!”

“You know it isn’t that simple! They don’t need a good reason; if people in the North hate the name Lannister more than the name Bolton, it won’t matter that I’m a few years older than Arya.”

“It will be revealed that she is not Arya before that day comes. You, your brother, your Aunt Lysa, my sons… there are people who can identify Arya and—”

“And what if something happens to me?! If I should die, you’ve just handed the Boltons the key to the north. No matter that it’s a fake… the _Boltons_ , Tywin – they murdered my mother and my brother!”

He didn’t know what to respond to first, but it seemed she wasn’t looking for a response, “It’s one thing to see Roose as Warden for the interim. I understand after the war you needed to stabilize the kingdom, but this sounds like you want the Boltons to remain in power until our future heir, our second son, comes of age. What were you thinking?! _Were_ you even thinking? You’ll let the Boltons rule for two decades then expect them to hand Winterfell over freely when our son is ready to claim it?”

Tywin was ashamed to admit this was a possibility he hadn’t even considered. He was so fixated on ensuring the north aligned with the Boltons and not Stannis, but would he come to regret this decision?

“This can be easily undone, wife, if needs be. Your brother Jon can vouch that the girl is not Arya; you can write him and ask him to ride for Winterfell to see—”

“And if this Ramsay Bolton finds out you’re behind that? The northern vassals won’t even have to turn against the Boltons to be a threat to you; the Boltons themselves will turn against you! An entire northern kingdom united against Tommen Baratheon and Tywin Lannister! Stannis can promise this Ramsay the wardenship to ensure his allegiance. He can promise to recover the Northern princess from the jaws of the evil lion – you know how many northern families would support him then?”

Tywin felt utterly defeated. How had he not considered all the angles his wife was turning over in her mind? He had thought on this plan for days. She only knew of it for an hour and already was seeing risks and outcomes he’d never anticipated. He scolded himself internally, and she hadn’t yet even addressed the topic he most feared– what his failure to disclose his plan would do to their marriage.

He rubbed his eyes and focused on the task at hand, “What’s done is done… none of the possibilities you’ve mentioned are guaranteed or even likely to happen. No plan is without some risk… if I’d done nothing to help cement the Bolton’s position we might be hearing right now that they’ve been attacked by their own vassals. At least the Boltons remain loyal to the Crown; they remain our best defense against Stannis unless you’d like me to send the Crown’s armies north to take him on… though as you just pointed out, the snows are deep there, we would lose many men to the elements… Is that what you’d have me do?”

He could practically see the gears turning inside her head. She didn’t directly answer his question, “We need Winterfell. If you will not expend the men to take it and hold it until our second son comes of age, then you must install someone there who will be loyal to us. Not Bolton loyalty, _real_ loyalty. A man who will die for the daughter of Ned Stark – the _real_ daughter…”

Tywin sighed, “I put the Boltons there, wife; you wish me to betray them already?”

“ _Did_ you put them there?” she quirked a brow.

“You know I did…”

“You told me you _permitted_ the Red Wedding to take place. After the Red Wedding, it was King Joffrey who named Roose Bolton Warden of the North – no surprise there: Joffrey was cruel, demented, and hated the Starks. Getting rid of Roose Bolton now would simply be correcting the error of a mad king.”

“Still… Walder Frey also knows.”

“Walder Frey is old; very old. Old men die every day, especially during winter… and would he truly choose to betray you? From what I’ve heard, he’s not near as _brave_ as the Boltons…”

“Sansa…”

“You said the northern families are turning against the Boltons. Right now the only one supporting them in this _rebellion_ is Stannis Baratheon. You are letting him become their hero. That is dangerous.”

Tywin knew where she was going with this, and it was both frightening and arousing how well his young wife could play the game…

“Who would be a suitable alternative?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“My brother, Jon… with the full support and endorsement of his sister and her husband… Jon will not betray me, will not betray his future nephew… he has more honor than everyone in this wretched capital combined, and that includes you, husband. If Jon refuses I’d suggest Lord Glover or Lord Manderly.”

“Sansa…” he pulled her into his lap, surprised that she did not resist, “I swear on my life, on my legacy, on everything I hold dear, it was never my intent to keep this from you…”

“But you did, and you made a mess of things,” she spoke matter-of-factly but not cruelly.

“I don’t agree, about the _mess_ that is, though I admit you’ve raised valid arguments…”

She threw her head back and laughed, “How kind of you to notice… I’ll put you out of your misery, husband… you want to know whether I will stay in your bed...”

He lowered his eyes to his lap, ashamed of how craven he was in that moment.

Her breath tickled his ear, “Keeping out of your bed would punish me as well as you, for I’ve grown rather fond of the things we do there…”

Tywin could almost breathe again… _almost…_ “But?”

She shrugged, “There is no ‘but’… let’s eat our cold dinner, husband.”

She led a confused Tywin by the hand to their adjoining dining room and didn’t wait for him to sit down before digging in. “I’m famished!” she said casually. Indeed, she looked it – she ate an entire helping before speaking again, with the same nonchalance, “Olenna is mad that I slipped through her fingers. I suspect if you died tomorrow, I’d not be a widow for long.”

Tywin’s fork froze midway to his mouth. She continued speaking in a light tone without looking at him, “Then again, if Willas were to be unavailable, I get the feeling that either Jaime or Tyrion would _gladly_ step into your shoes. Jaime seems so much _friendlier_ now that Cersei is dead… I _wonder_ why that is…”

Tywin put his fork down loudly, wiping his mouth with a napkin and preparing to speak when Sansa smiled wistfully, still not making eye contact, as if he didn’t deserve her attention, “Though Garlan Tyrell is also quite the catch… charming, kind, handsome… tall and broad shouldered, dark hair and eyes, quite the Stark look on that one. And I’ve heard he knows how to use his _sword…_ that few men can best him…”

Tywin snorted, “Garlan Tyrell is married,” he sipped his wine feeling only a bit of triumph.

“He is, and yet he wants to fuck me.”

Tywin choked on his wine, earning a predatory grin from his wife. He knew this was his punishment, and he deserved it, but it was also a _challenge_ … and he would _not_ back down…

He rose and rounded the table to stand facing his wife, who looked like the cat who’d caught the canary as she lazed back against the chair, all willowy limbs.

He leaned over her, “I recall meeting Ser Garlan’s wife. A timid little thing; looked like she’d never been fucked properly. Perhaps Garlan isn’t as skilled with his _sword_ as one might think by looking at him.”

Sansa shrugged innocently, “Perhaps. No matter if that’s so… plenty of other options. It’s been repeatedly pointed out that I’m one of the most sought-after women in the realm. That men would start wars for me.”

“Is that what you want, little wolf? For your husband to start a war for you?”

She shook her head, “No, I want him to finish one.”

Tywin’s throbbing cock could take no more. He gripped her arms roughly and pulled her to her feet just long enough to bend her over the table and descend on her core, sucking and licking as if his very life depended on his ability to bring her to peak. If it did, his safety was secure as she cried out his name three times on his tongue, and then another time on his cock while he pounded into her brutally. He wanted her cunt to be aching tomorrow while they sat in the Small Council room. He wanted his seed to still be seeping out of her when Ser Garlan flashed his handsome smile in her direction. He leaned over as she cried out her bliss and bit her on the shoulder. He licked and nibbled at her sweet flesh all the while digging his fingers into her hips hard enough to leave bruises.

He could feel her legs giving out, but he knew he could wring one more out of her. He flipped her onto her back, hooking the crook of her knees over his forearms as he resumed his manic thrusts.

“Touch yourself, Sansa.”

She shook her head, breathless and flushed.

_“Do it.”_

Obediently she dipped her fingers into her heat, rubbing at her pearl and occasionally brushing against Tywin’s cock.

“You won’t bathe tomorrow morning, wife… sit next to Garlan Tyrell, I want him to smell our sex on your skin.”

“Tywin,” she moaned.

“Tell me you think he can fuck you like I do, and I’ll let you do it. Hells, you can do it in my bed, I’ll sit on the other side of the door and torture myself with the sounds of my wife impaled on another man’s cock… if you can tell me for one second you think he could fuck you like I do.”

Her answer didn’t come in the form of a ‘yes’ or ‘no’, but in the scream of her ecstasy – her fifth of the night. Satisfied she could take no more, Tywin relaxed his muscles and let himself spend deep inside her.

When he finally collapsed in a chair, his wife still spread out on the table like the loveliest meal a man could ask for, he knew this was all an illusion – one he was happy to believe. He envied and admired her power. She let him take her roughly, possessively, not because he had any control, but because it’s how _she_ wanted it in that moment. She wanted to know she had his affection, his loyalty, his dedication… wanted to know the idea of her with another man would drive him mad… and she wanted not to be told all this, but to be _shown_ …

Sansa finally sat up, not bothering to straighten her robe or smooth her hair. She braced herself on his shoulders to lower her feet to the ground, then smiled at him knowingly. As if to prove his unvoiced theory, she slapped him on the cheek ungently and winked, “Good lion.”

As she sauntered back into their bedroom, Tywin knew he was fucked, and couldn’t summon the pride to care.


	42. Chapter 42

Sansa could hardly believe all that had transpired in less than two moons. As she sat in the dilapidated keep of Moat Cailin, she felt no small amount of fear that this plan – the one she devised and petitioned for so passionately – would fall apart. She thought back to the day she was able to turn the tide in her favor. She, Tywin, Jaime, Garlan, and Kevan had been debating what to do with the Boltons after Ramsay killed his father, the Warden of the North, Roose Bolton, and had yet to send word of his allegiance to King Tommen. At the same time, many northern houses were beginning to rally around Stannis Baratheon, who was still north of the Wall with Sansa’s half-brother Jon Snow. Tywin and Kevan, proposed numerous options comprised of intrigue and deception. Jaime, Garlan and Sansa were arguing against such means.

 _“This must not be done with secrecy, my lords,”_ Sansa plead her case, _“Stannis and the Boltons will find out about our actions and movements, regardless. Secrecy and deception will lead the Northern houses to believe our cause is ignoble. It is **not**. Roose Bolton and by extension all Bolton men betrayed their Lord and King, Robb Stark. Ramsay then committed an act of kinslaying to claim his father’s lordship. Give the North two options and two options only – join with us or join with Stannis. Stannis has no true concern for the North, he is using it only as a means to an end – to claim the Iron Throne, which he does not have the numbers to do. Aligning with Stannis would pit the North against the South for years to come and I’m confident they will not want that – not with Winter bearing down on them. They can fight with us against the Boltons, or with Stannis against the Boltons. The difference will be what will happen after the Boltons are vanquished. With us, the Northerners will have peace; they will be ruled by a Warden they choose, with the blessing of the last Stark, and they will have an alliance with the fertile and prosperous kingdoms south of the Moat. Stannis offers them only protracted war – a war he is unlikely to win.”_

Kevan shook his head, _“And what of those who believe Stannis is the true heir to the Iron Throne? I imagine most northerners subscribe to this belief.”_

_“Most northerners don’t care one whit who sits the Iron Throne. They want independence, or as close to independence as they can get.”_

Tywin arched a brow, snorting, _“And we are offering them that?”_

_“No, but we are offering them a king who will not interfere with their way of life. I personally can attest to King Tommen’s kind nature; from what you’ve told me, Stannis is so singularly focused on winning the Crown that he would betray his own family to see his wishes fulfilled.”_

_“So you are proposing all-out war against the Boltons and Stannis now – during winter – after you recently convinced us Winterfell cannot be sieged during winter. That is your proposal?”_ Tywin didn’t bother trying to hide the disapproval in his tone.

_“I’m suggesting we call the Northern bannerman and win their loyalty **before** Stannis can become further entrenched.”_

Garlan looked pensive, “ _And what of the Boltons? Do we move against them?”_

_“We have every right to, but that depends on what the Northern houses have appetite for. We should not thrust them into battle once they declare their fealty to King Tommen; that would be no better than what Stannis is offering. But if they choose to avenge Robb and Catelyn Stark, then we will support them.”_

_“You said we cannot take Winterfell and the Dreadfort during winter, my lady.”_

_“We cannot, not the Lannister army alone, while watching over our shoulder for Stannis and his Northern allies. But **with** the Northern armies on our side… they know winter warfare, Ser.”_

Jaime rubbed the bridge of his nose, _“So we unite the North, take Winterfell and the Dreadfort, then deal with Stannis?”_

Sansa pursed her lips, _“If the North unites behind King Tommen, I suspect Stannis will tuck tail and run. I suppose you could offer him a compromise – let his daughter Shireen inherit the Stormlands rather than ending his line.”_

 _“This is a significant undertaking…”_ Jaime rubbed his taut neck, _“I agree with you in theory, but this is another war…”_

_“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves… all I am proposing is we call the Northern Lords and Ladies and secure their loyalty. What happens after that will be up to them – perhaps they will wish to return to their homes, hunker down through Winter, and deal with the Boltons come spring.”_

Tywin sighed, _“Let the Boltons hold Winterfell all winter? What if this winter lasts five years?”_

_“Then we must retain the loyalty of the Northern houses for five years. In that time the Boltons will become weaker, we will become stronger. If we do nothing now, then Stannis will gain their loyalty. If Stannis is the man to unite the largest kingdom against the Lannisters, who else might join his cause? The Martells? The Vale?”_

_“What about the Freys?”_ Kevan asked, _“If we are eliminating the Boltons and calling it ‘justice’, then would we not do the same to the Freys?”_

_“The Freys were not my brother’s bannermen, they were an ally during wartime that he betrayed by breaking an oath. Perhaps the punishment did not fit the crime, but Roose Bolton’s betrayal ran much deeper.”_

_“Fine,”_ Tywin exhaled, _“Let’s say the Northerners rally behind us, and choose to act against the Boltons immediately, and we are successful. Who then becomes Warden of the North?”_

_“My half-brother Jon, if King Tommen would relieve him of his duty to the Night’s Watch. If Jon is disinclined, then I would suggest holding a vote among the Lords and Ladies of the North.”_

_“A vote?!”_ Tywin scoffed, _“We must control the North, we cannot risk that someone with dubious loyalty to us is named Warden.”_

_“Do you not see that by letting them select their Warden that we’d be **gaining** considerable loyalty? What other King has been known to do that?!”_

Tywin shook his head but said no more on the matter. Jaime’s eyes narrowed, _“Where would we meet with the Northern lords? They will not come to us; they will not trust that. Nor should we trust going to them.”_

Sansa was prepared for this question, _“My lord husband informs me that Moat Cailin is held by a small contingent of Bolton guards. We take the Moat and invite the Northern Lords there. It will gain their loyalty and secure a very advantageous stronghold for us.”_

Garlan looked at the map, nodding, _“It’s not far inland on the eastern side; ships from King’s Landing, the Vale, or the Reach could be there swiftly if things don’t go our way.”_

Jaime nodded, _“We would bring enough men to take the Moat and hold it, but not so many that the Northerners will view it as an act of war.”_

Kevan added, _“And it’s not far from the Twins, we could call on the Freys if we needed support.”_

Tywin nodded, _“Some of the men holding the Moat **are** Freys… we would offer them surrender and an escort to the Twins. Only the Bolton men would remain to oppose us… they might also surrender but should be kept as hostages.”_

Sansa shook her head, _“I doubt this Ramsay Bolton cares about a few of his men. Perhaps delivering him their heads – or their skins – would be a more advantageous use of our resources.”_

All eyes fell to her. She only shrugged, _“Though I know little of siege warfare.”_

A silence descended but eventually Jaime spoke, _“Father, are we doing this?”_

Tywin looked to no one but Sansa, _“We cannot risk the North falling into Stannis’ hands… my lady, draft the summons to every lord and lady, and one to your brother at the wall. They will not be sent until we arrive at the Moat.”_

Sansa nodded, _“And to **Lord** Bolton?”_

Tywin’s straight mouth curved, _“Invite him to come bend the knee to King Tommen…”_

…

Now Sansa and Tywin sat in the great hall of the once great Moat Cailin. They’d arrived a sennight ago, and it was not a moment too soon. Sansa found traveling by ship did not agree with her and would walk back to the capital barefoot before she’d get on a ship again.

The Crown’s army, led by Jaime and Ser Addam, had made short work of the few dozen Boltons at the Moat – indeed the men agreed to a surrender the moment they saw the size of their opponent’s host. It was only twelve hundred men, but it was more than enough to storm the towers.

Now all they had to do was wait for the Northern bannermen to arrive. Those furthest north could take the better part of three weeks assuming they departed immediately upon receiving the raven. It was only now in these uneventful days of waiting that Sansa had a frightening realization, which she voiced aloud to her husband, “What if none of them come?”

Tywin didn’t falter, “Then we know they are loyal to Stannis, and having confirmation of that is valuable. If nothing else, we secured the Moat, which will make it exceedingly difficult for _any_ forces to march on the south…”

She was only slightly mollified, “If they don’t come, does it mean they believe Ramsay’s wife is Arya? And they chose her over me?”

Tywin’s brow furrowed in surprise, “If they don’t choose you, wife, it’s only because they’ve never met you,” he spoke pointedly. It was one of Tywin’s habits she found quite endearing – he offered the deepest flattery yet anyone hearing only his tone would think they were barbs. Just as he expressed his care in ways that could be construed as patronizing, like when he found her on the deck of the ship late one night wearing only a dressing gown and thin robe. He had removed his own cloak, putting it around her slender shoulders and cursing beneath his breath, _“Foolish northern woman; you can still catch a cold even if winter is in your veins.”_

Sansa smiled to her husband who nodded his head one time in acknowledgment. She resigned herself to wait and see if her plan would pay off.

Sansa’s worries were for naught… over the next fortnight the lords trickled in. First was Lord Reed who traveled from the nearby Greywater Watch. Next was Lady Hornwood, then Lord Flint of Widow’s Watch. Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor arrived next, and Tywin was obviously grateful for his presence, as he had spent considerable time at Winterfell with the Boltons, only leaving when Roose Bolton (shortly before his death) tasked him with leading an offensive strike against Stannis. Lord Manderly departed Winterfell heading north, but later backtracked to White Harbor – unwilling to take on Stannis’ larger force in what he knew Roose Bolton intended to be a suicide mission.

The last to arrive were Alysane Mormont of Bear Island and Lord Galbart Glover from Deepwood Motte, who traveled together by ship along the western sea. A few more days passed before any formal talks would begin, to allow the outstanding lords to arrive, but they did not come. Lord Umber, Lady Karstark, Lady Cerwyn, and Lady Tallhart were not present, though their proximity to Winterfell or the Dreadfort meant they likely feared the Boltons’ wrath.

In those days, the tension was high. The lords and ladies seemed torn between their genuine affection for Sansa – who they said reminded them of her late mother – and their mistrust of the Lannisters. Sansa did all she could to assuage their concerns without appearing desperate for their allegiance. Theirs was the stronger side, the safer bet, than Stannis – she would not allow them to set the tone of the negotiations that would follow. Sansa imagined this was how the traveling fair performers felt when they walked on the tightrope: leaning too far either way would be her undoing.

**Tywin**

Tywin was finding the Northern lords and ladies tedious. His lady wife politely but sternly defended her marriage into the Lannister family at least a dozen times. The northerners were suspicious of Tywin Lannister and King Tommen, understandably so, and Tywin could tell Sansa was trying to be respectful of this. It was only when the formal talks began – Tywin explainin their intent to remove the Boltons from Winterfell and oppose Stannis’ pursuit of the throne – that Sansa finally seemed to have tired of explaining herself calmly. Lord Manderly was trying to convince the others present that Stannis, not Tywin, should have their allegiance.

Sansa did something very unladylike – she huffed loudly to show her frustration, “Then Lord Manderly, you are a fool.” The other lords and ladies fell silent, as did the stunned Lord Manderly. Sansa stared at him long moments before continuing, “Stannis doesn’t just want your loyalty; he wants your _lives_ … your blood. He will make you fight with him to take the throne, and in case you’re harboring any notion that he will be successful, let me assure you – he won’t. King Tommen can easily put an end to Stannis even _without_ calling his banners, and even without your support… the Crown’s armies outnumber Stannis’ by a substantial margin. But unlike some of King Tommen’s predecessors, he is not a warmonger. He appreciates the lives that would be lost in such a battle, if not to blade then to the cold. He hopes his uncle will see that his bid for the Crown is futile and give up his pursuit. But make no mistake, if Stannis moves against the south he will perish – along with any who fight alongside him.”

Manderly was quiet, but Lord Glover took up his fight, “My lady, you assume our only choices are between Stannis and Tommen… the North seeks its independence.”

“I know what the North wants more than most, Lord Glover. You use the word ‘independence’ when what you mean is peace and prosperity, am I correct?”

Glover’s eyes darted to the other northerners before he nodded solemnly.

“Do you expect to prosper under Ramsay Bolton’s rule? Do you expect to have peace?”

Again a silent counsel was held before Glover shook his head.

“Do you expect you’d prosper once you’re at peace with the Crown – which also means its allies: the Westerlands, the Reach, the Riverlands, the Vale, and even Dorne?”

Glover’s cheeks reddened but he nodded.

“I have impressed upon my King and my husband, the King’s Hand, that the North wishes for independence. I will not lie and tell you that you’ll have it; I can only tell you that King Tommen is no tyrant – he is no Targaryen. He is kind and generous, and if you doubt his nature, having not met him yourself, then let me offer you this… his advisors are men who know too well that war is wasteful. A realm at war is not profitable for the crown. Do you think my husband, Lord Lannister, wishes to spend his gold on a war? Do you think Ser Kevan or Lord Mace Tyrell want to risk their sons lives? These are men with something to lose, and these are King Tommen’s advisors.”

“You’re forgetting _yourself_ , my lady,” Tywin stated.

Sansa’s cheeks reddened. Tywin stepped forward, “Your Northern Princess, the last Stark, she is on King Tommen’s Small Council.”

Audible signs of surprise filled the hall.

Garlan stepped forward, capitalizing on their temporary awe, “That she is, and a fine contributor at that. She has the King’s ear. Will any of you have Stannis’ ear – that is, assuming you survive the battle against the Boltons _and_ the war Stannis wishes to thrust you into?”

The rumblings of the group showed their skepticism of Stannis.

Lord Manderly looked up, having regained his pride, “What are you proposing?”

Tywin straightened his doublet, “That we form an alliance against a common enemy – the Boltons, and, if it comes to it, Stannis… After the Boltons are vanquished, a new Warden of the North will be named who will be loyal to King Tommen, my wife, and our future heir.”

Lady Mormont spoke up with a defiant snort, “You mean a Southron?”

“No,” Tywin answered calmly, “a Northerner of your choosing. My wife would like to see her brother Jon installed, but if he is unwilling, then you may choose your next Warden from among those Northern lords who are loyal to both King Tommen and House Stark.”

Lady Hornwood spoke next, “What of Lady Arya? Ramsay Bolton has wed her.”

Sansa nodded to acknowledge the older woman’s concern, “I do not believe the young woman Ramsay wed is my sister, for multiple reasons. If Ramsay intends to use her as leverage once we move against him, he would have to reveal her to someone who can corroborate her identity – myself, my brother Jon, or either of my good-brothers.” Tywin and Sansa had conferred on this matter with Kevan and Jaime. They could not reveal Tywin’s ruse without it working against them – the Northerners would have even less reason to trust him.

The rumblings continued as the Northerners deliberated amongst themselves. It was only then that Tywin noticed how pale Sansa looked. Tywin pulled her aside to a far corner, out of earshot, “You look unwell, wife.”

She shook her head, “My stomach hasn’t recovered from the voyage, and I believe the stress has caught up with me.”

“Do you wish to retire?”

“No!” she stated emphatically, and Tywin knew not to argue.

“Will you sit, at least?” Tywin asked as he pressed a hand to her forehead.

“I’m fine, Tywin, stop fussing,” Sansa voice was as defiant as it could be while whispering.

Tywin shook his head to voice his objection but led her back to a seat nonetheless and handed her a goblet of water, “Here my lady, perhaps you’re overwarm.”

She sipped the water appreciatively and let out a small smile, “You’d have made a good nursemaid, husband…”

Tywin permitted himself a grin of his own and leaned in to whisper in her ear, “Do you realize you just compared _Tywin Lannister_ to a nursemaid?”

Sansa moved to clamp a hand over her mouth, but the giggle had already escaped. Every Northerner turned in her direction, perplexed and in some cases pleased by their lady’s mirth.

Jaime took the seat to Tywin’s right and spoke under his breath, “I never thought I’d say this, Father, but perhaps you should try to look a bit _more_ intimidating…”

Another giggle escaped Sansa’s lips. Tywin widened his eyes, “How much wine have you had?”

“None,” she smiled back.

“For Gods’ sake,” Tywin mumbled, “I’d have done better to bring Tyrion.”

…

The next day everyone assembled again in the hall, with the battle-weary Northerners expressing their intent to swear allegiance to King Tommen, and to fight alongside the Crown and its allies to rid the north of the Boltons for good. Not surprisingly, the lords demanded payments as a show of goodwill and so they could provision themselves well for the winter. Tywin agreed with little argument, knowing dead allies would be no good to him. This would be paid by Tywin himself as the Crown’s coffers were still low.

As the day came to a close, it was clear there was no warmth between the Northerners and Tywin, though they seemed to fully embrace his wife. A small feast was planned for that evening, and everyone moved to retire to their chambers to freshen up. But before they could reach the doorway, four Lannister guards led in a bedraggled trio: an older man with leathered skin, a young man with black eyes and hair, and a girl with cracked scars covering half her face.

The guards were about to address Tywin when his little wife ran across the room and threw herself into the young man’s arms and began sobbing unabashedly.


	43. Good brothers

**Sansa**

Sansa couldn’t stop touching her half-brother. His hands, his shoulders, his cheeks, his hair. She cared not for propriety, nor whether her affection embarrassed her elder brother; she needed to keep reminding herself that this was _real_ – not a dream or a fantasy.

“You look just like father and Uncle Benjen. I can’t believe it; it’s like I’m looking at a younger version of father!”

“Me?! I’m a head shorter than father was. You on the other hand are the spitting image of Lady Catelyn, and dare I say, even more beautiful.”

Sansa blushed even though they were alone in the room but for Sandor and Ser Andre at the doorway – Tywin’s insistence. He permitted the siblings an hour to catch up but needed to hear Jon’s telling of events as soon as possible. Sansa resisted the temptation to ask Jon about how he came to be here, who his companions were, and other questions she knew he’d answer in front of Tywin. Instead she focused on just _being_ with Jon – possibly her only remaining sibling.

Jon frowned, “They say Ramsay Bolton has Arya.”

“He _doesn’t_ ,” answered Sansa, leaving no room for argument.

Jon nodded skeptically and changed the subject, “I got your letter… about your marriage…”

Sansa felt her cheeks heat, “I know what it looks like—”

“It looks like you made the best out of a horrible situation. It sounds like you chose a husband who will protect you.”

Tears welled in her eyes, “He will; he does… I know his reputation, Jon, and I know it’s mostly deserved, but he has never been cruel toward me. He is pragmatic. He doesn’t live for war. He doesn’t rejoice in suffering. He isn’t like…”

“Like Joffrey?”

Sansa nodded, “How did you know?”

Jon shrugged, “New recruits bring news from all over the realm. They called him another Mad king… I must ask, Sansa: his brother…?”

“No. Tommen is _not_ Joffrey. Time will tell whether he will be a great king, but he will _not_ be a cruel king like Aerys and Joffrey. And he won’t be a drunken king like Robert. And unlike Joffrey, he listens to his advisors.”

Jon nodded, “Good. That’s good. Sansa there is so much I must tell you, but we need a united realm going forward. It is more important than ever before.” The fear in Jon’s eyes was unnerving, but before she could probe, the doors swung open and the others walked in.

**Jaime**

After the Northerners agreed to the alliance Jaime breathed a sigh of relief and allowed himself to hold some hope for the future. He should have learned by now that nothing was ever that simple.

Jon and his companion, Davos Seaworth, told a tale that was as frightening as it was implausible…

Their other companion was Shireen Baratheon, Stannis Baratheon’s sole heir. The girl was presently being tended to by some maids that had accompanied Lady Hornwood. Davos, known as the Onion Knight, had loyally served Stannis for years, and had come to look at Shireen as something of a niece. He discovered a plan hatched by Stannis and his Red Priestess, Melisandre, to burn the girl alive as a sacrifice to the Lord of Light. The sacrifice would, according to Melisandre, assure Stannis victory in the war.

Jon explained to the group that he did not trust Stannis, but that the Night’s Watch was desperate for allies because they were facing an unprecedented threat from north of the Wall. Stannis planned to gain Jon’s loyalty by ridding Winterfell of the Boltons. He would legitimize Jon and name him Warden of the North if Jon agreed to side with Stannis when he moved to take the Iron Throne.

Jon turned to Sansa and Tywin, “I never wanted to rule Winterfell, and certainly not the entire north. I never wanted more war for the realm, but Stannis was dangerous, particularly with his Red Priestess whispering in his ear. I went along just enough to keep myself alive... but when Davos told me of Melisandre and Stannis’ plans for Shireen, I couldn’t stand by anymore. I set Ghost loose south of the Wall and we left under cover of darkness. We made our way to Eastwatch by the Sea and took one of the Watch’s small boats. I didn’t… I didn’t know what else to do. It was just after Stannis learned that you were calling the banners to Moat Cailin, so we came here. I’ve abandoned by duty and I will accept whatever punishment King Tommen sees fit, but I ask that you protect the girl. She is an innocent – uninterested in the wars of men. And before I meet my end, I would ask that you hear me about the threat we are all facing. Davos can attest to it, as can numerous brothers of the Watch, should you ever meet them.”

Sansa’s eyes darted to Tywin, clearly only just realizing that Jon could be executed for abandoning his oath made to the Night’s Watch.

A low grumble came from Tywin’s throat before he spoke, “Shireen Baratheon is King Tommen’s cousin. He would not see her punished for her father’s treason. Moreover, he would have only gratitude for the man – the _men_ – who saved her, in doing so putting themselves at peril. Let us speak of this threat you allude to, and also of what you know of Stannis’ forces. But first I would ask your opinion – both of you…” Tywin nodded toward Davos, “would Stannis consider surrendering his cause once he learns that there is an alliance in place between the Crown and most of the northern houses?”

Jon Snow wasn’t stupid, “You mean now that you have his heir?”

Tywin arched a brow, “That as well, though an heir he was prepared to kill, apparently.”

Jon shook his head, “He is convinced, in no small part due to Melisandre’s _visions_ that he is destined for greatness – to be the next King on the Iron Throne; to be the savior of the realm... He is…”

“Delusional,” Davos said the word Jon seemed unwilling to voice.

Tywin only nodded. Lord Glover spoke next, “What of this threat from the far north? Wildlings?”

Jon shook his head slowly, “I wish.”

Over the next hour, Jon described an army of undead soldiers, led by creatures of lore that were called White Walkers. It would have been a much shorter tale had the northern lords and ladies not interrupted him frequently to express their disbelief. Jon patiently explained that he had seen these creatures for himself, even killed some using fire and later his Valyrian steel sword – Longclaw – gifted to him by the former Lord Commander of the Watch. Davos validated his claims, having seen the creatures with his own eyes when Stannis ordered Davos to join a party of rangers to obtain proof of their existence. Davos described them as walking corpses in various states of decomposition, some nothing more than skeletons.

Despite the claims of these two seemingly sane and trustworthy men, no one in the large group seemed to believe them. Even Sansa seemed unconvinced, though she trusted her brother’s words. It wasn’t until Lord Reed spoke up that the others stopped voicing their doubts. He spoke with calm assuredness to describe green dreams some of his people had reported over the past year, which had uncanny similarity to what Jon and Davos described. His eyes flicked often to Sansa and Jon, and Jaime sensed there was more to his story that he would not voice in front of the others.

When the room fell silent, each man and woman seemingly struggling with what to make of these stories and warnings, Tywin spoke up, “I have a hard time believing such tales, though I have an even harder time guessing why you would concoct them, other to gain more support for the Night’s Watch. But since you have now parted from your brothers in black, and are unlikely to be reunited with them until after Stannis is removed, which could be years from now... so I’m not sure why that would be your motive to concoct such lies, either.”

Jon shook his head, “I wish these were lies. I wish I could say that Davos and I have both gone mad, along with every other man who has claimed to see these creatures. And, my lord, we do not have years. When the army of the dead marches on the Wall, I intend to be there, if not as a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch, then as a son of the North. When that day comes, I doubt anyone will refuse my aid, for we will need as many men as possible to stand a chance. I am but a bastard, but for what it’s worth, I will support any man who is in favor of unifying the realm – from Last Hearth down to Dorne – for I fear what will happen if this army breaches the Wall and we are still waging wars against one another. My sister assures me that you, Lord Lannister, and your grandson, King Tommen, seek unity and peace amongst the kingdoms… and you have a better chance of achieving it than Stannis Baratheon.”

Tywin dipped his head at the young man, before bidding Jon to tell them everything he knew about Stannis’ army. After that, the weary men and women retired for the evening.

…

Jaime joined his father and Sansa in their quarters. Sansa looked contemplative. Tywin looked scheming. Jaime was the first to break the silence, “Five thousand men, half being cavalry. Stannis would be a fool to meet us in open battle; we could beat him even without the Northern forces.”

Tywin responded without meeting Jaime's eyes, “Indeed. And Stannis is no fool – at least he never was, though Jon and Davos disagree.”

Sansa spoke up, “They said he is arrogant, not foolish.”

“In battle, arrogance _is_ foolishness,” Tywin corrected without condescension.

Jaime nodded, “Let’s assume he isn’t _that_ foolish. He is most likely to try to take a stronghold. Winterfell or the Dreadfort would be castles he could take and hold for years during winter. He knows we’ve called the northern houses, and by now probably has an idea of which ones answered. He will either move quickly to take a northern fortress, or… well, where else could he go?”

Tywin shook his head, “He doesn't have the numbers to take Storm’s End from the Crown. Short of fleeing to Essos, he’ll need to take a northern fortress if his men are to survive the winter.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, “His men are camping at Castle Black and the surrounding lands. It is cold and getting colder. If Davos – his most loyal man – has turned against him, perhaps others have also.”

Tywin took a seat, “You are suggesting we seek a coup? To turn Stannis’ men against him. I doubt they will trust any offer of peace extended from myself, or from King Tommen.”

“No, perhaps not. But with Davos beside you, my brother, the northern lords… If they swear allegiance to King Tommen, give them an option to return to their homes in Storm’s End or to become part of the guards or armies of the northern houses whose numbers have been depleted.”

Jaime nodded, “Or to join the Night’s Watch; if they are unwilling to kneel to King Tommen let them join the Watch instead of losing their heads. Jon Snow said the Watch needs every available hand.”

“So send capable soldiers back to Storm’s End where they may bide their time to rally against the Crown in the future? It’s too risky.”

Sansa implored him, “Five thousand men sick of fighting, sick of cold, and likely hungry. King Tommen is offering them life, freedom, and comfort; Stannis can only offer them hunger and a likely demise. Would you be quick to turn on _benevolent_ King Tommen if you were one of those men?” 

“Perhaps not,” Tywin exhaled deeply, “But they will need to be monitored closely.”

“I agree; which is why Shireen Baratheon’s presence here is quite fortuitous.”

“She is a child, wife.”

“A child who has accompanied her father to war. A child whose own father was willing to burn her alive. It sounds as if she trusts Davos. Perhaps if she also trusts _us…_ and perhaps if she is wed to someone _we_ trust, or appointed a Regent we trust…”

“You’re thinking of your brother.”

“No; he isn’t interested in politics. He said he intends to be at the Wall to defend the realm of the living.”

“Who would want to take a child wife who is disfigured, and whose children will be heirs to nothing? Are you forgetting that Tommen’s second son will inherit the Stormlands?”

Sansa’s cheeks reddened, “Tommen’s second son or daughter could be promised to Shireen’s firstborn. This way they will _both_ inherit the Stormlands. And she seems to be a sweet girl, some scarring on one cheek should hardly be a deterrent to a man whose child will inherit the Stormlands.”

Tywin appeared to be deeply pondering her idea, “Certainly we can find a young lord from the Westerlands who would take on that duty. If not, perhaps Lord Royce of the Vale will have someone in mind – it would go a long way to cementing his loyalty.”

Sansa arched a brow, “Olenna Tyrell will have something to say about it. She’s still looking for a bride for Willas. She already feels you stole me from her clutches.”

Tywin nodded curtly, “It will have to be carefully navigated.”

Jaime was growing bored of this talk of marriage alliances, “It seems much must go our way before we need to think of marriages and regents. Stannis could be marching on Winterfell as we speak. How long is the trek from Castle Black to Winterfell?”

Sansa pinched her lips, “Jon would know more accurately. I believe it’s a good month by horse during winter. If only half his force is mounted, then perhaps more like six weeks. I imagine they will have to send out hunting parties frequently; clear away snow for their horses to graze. I can’t imagine they have provisions for 5,000 men and horses for weeks if they’ve been living at the Wall.”

Jaime nodded, “Could easily take him two moons then; more if the snows are deep.”

“What if they left as soon as they heard of our meeting at the moat? Then they will soon be at Winterfell, or the Dreadfort if that is their target.”

Tywin sighed, “If they took either fortress it would not be without casualties. His numbers could have been easily cut in half with the effort to sack either castle.”

“Desperate times…” Jaime snorted.

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, “We need to speak to the northern lords, find out if they are ready and willing to take on the Boltons now – at Winterfell and the Dreadfort. If they are, then we will send word immediately to Kevan to lead 8,000 of our men by ship to the eastern coast to take the Dreadfort. The Northerners and the twelve hundred men we have with us will march north to take Winterfell. Once we do that, Stannis will be even more of a lost cause, and we will offer his men a royal pardon in exchange for their unconditional fealty.”

Jaime nodded, already feeling the thrill of battle.

“What of the army of the dead, my lord?” Sansa asked quietly.

Tywin shook his head, “I will not disrespect your brother by refuting his claims publicly, but I will make no plans based on what sounds like a fairy tale. Once Stannis is disposed of, I will send a delegate to see this _threat_ with his own eyes. If it is real, then we will deal with it. Until then the focus is on the Boltons and Stannis.”

\------------------------------------

**Tywin**

Getting the battle-weary northerners on board with the plan the following morning was almost too easy. Tywin searched their eyes for deception, but it became quickly apparent that they felt Ramsay Bolton calling himself the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North was an insult of monumental proportions. Ramsay’s reputation for depravity was well known; allegedly he killed not just his father but his father’s wife and babe by feeding them alive to his hounds. Of course, those were only rumors.

One thing was certain though – when Ramsay took the very Moat they now congregated in, he offered the Ironborn who were holding it mercy in exchange for their surrender. Apparently, his idea of _mercy_ was skinning them alive. There was no love for the Ironborn in the North, but they believed in honoring one’s words. Tywin found that these northerners who loved and respected the Starks hated seeing the Stark ancestral home in the hands of such vile men. Nor did any of them wish to go through the coming winter under the care and authority of such a heartless warden. Of course, what they didn’t voice was the expectation that Tywin and his allies would help them to not starve by sending food and supplies north. Perhaps he would need to find some way to further ingratiate himself with the Tyrells after all…

Tywin was gladdened to have the northerners agree to his plan but knew there were still some factors that could prove to complicate things, “What of the families who aren’t here – the Umbers, Karstarks, Cerwyns, Flints, and Tallharts. Are they a threat to us?”

Lady Mormont spoke up passionately, “The Tallhart and Cerwyn forces are very small. The Flints keep to themselves in the mountains. Only the Karstarks might be tempted to side with the Boltons, but I doubt they’d be reckless enough to actually do so. The Umbers would never take up arms against Ned Stark’s daughter, but their patriarch, the Greatjon, is still being held at the Twins. Some of their people have aligned with Stannis.” The other lords present nodded vigorously. If Tywin could convince Walder Frey to release Jon Umber, it would be a big step toward more amicable relations between the North and the Crown. Tywin’s eyes flicked to Jaime, who acknowledged his father with a slight dip of the chin.

The group adjourned late morning but would immediately commence a war council after lunch. Tywin would not be idle during this recess. He immediately sought out Jon Snow, finding the man in quarters he was sharing with Davos Seaworth. Neither man spoke, and after several seconds Davos excused himself. This was the first time Tywin and Jon spoke privately. Tywin was worried about giving too much power to the Stark bastard for fear of weakening his wife’s claim on Winterfell, but he recognized that northerners would sooner follow Tywin with Jon by his side, and would sooner kneel to Tommen with Jon’s endorsement of the boy king.

Tywin took the sole chair in the room while Jon sat on his cot. They eyed each other for what could have been minutes before Tywin spoke, “You’ll fight with us at Winterfell.”

It wasn’t a question, but Jon nodded anyway, “Only because I respect your plan to offer Stannis’ men the opportunity for peaceful surrender. We will need every man who can swing a sword, and we will need them soon. I see in your eyes you don’t believe me, but you will.”

Tywin inclined his head slightly, knowing the young man had more to say, but not expecting the direction Jon would take the conversation, “My sister is much changed.”

“She was a girl when you last saw her.”

“Not that. She sees everything. And hears everything.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Jon shrugged, “I don’t know. I suppose I have no one else to tell.”

“Speak your mind, Lord Snow.”

The man rose but made no move to close the gap between them, “Is she just a tool to you?”

Tywin shook his head.

Jon looked out the window wistfully, “I know little of the war; what I hear are only rumors, some more credible than others, but I find the older I get the less inclined I am to believe things I haven’t seen with my own eyes. Which is funny, since I’m now asking you and all the others to believe something that is so unbelievable, and to do so based on only my and Davos’ accounts.” He took a deep breath, “So I don’t ask you to believe me, I only ask that you don’t completely disbelieve me, either. And that you come to see for yourself.”

“That is my intent. I or someone I trust.”

“Because you don’t trust me?”

“No, nor should I.”

Something close to a smile appeared on the young man's face, “Good, because I don’t trust you.”

“Nor should you.”

Jon smiled despite himself and a comfortable silence passed before Tywin addressed the real reason for his visit, "You have Stark blood even if you are baseborn."

Jon shook his head, "I have no interest in being a lord or a warden or a king or anything else."

"That is immaterial. Do not think I don't know when I'm being used. The Northern lords and ladies have no love for me, or for King Tommen. I am a _tool_ for them - I will help them take the North back from the traitorous Boltons. I will give them coin and food to survive the winter - something Stannis cannot offer. And I do this for one reason and one reason only - to secure the lands my second son will someday rule and ensure that I'll be sending him to a place of peace and prosperity. To a place that still respects the name Stark and has learned to respect the name Lannister."

"Why are you telling me this, Lord Lannister?"

"Because people tend to dispose of tools once their immediate usefulness has been reaped. Winterfell belongs to Sansa by all rights-"

"I'm not denying that," Jon rose.

"But _they_ might... and they might use you as a tool as well. Convince you to claim Winterfell for yourself."

"I won't do that - I've already told you."

"You will tell me _immediately_ if any of the lords approach you with such a plan. And should you ever conspire to take what belongs to my wife, I will kill you and any Northmen who oppose me. Do not doubt the lengths I would go to to protect my family and my legacy. Am I clear?"

The look in Jon's eyes was confirmation enough. With a dip of his head, Tywin turned to leave the room, but Jon stopped him with a question of his own, “Where will Sansa be while we’re taking care of the Boltons and Stannis?” 

Tywin turned, “I will send her back to King’s Landing.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, “You don’t trust her to be in Winterfell? Are you afraid that after you’ve helped the Northmen rid the Boltons, they will rally around her and challenge your armies?”

Tywin blanched; he hadn’t even considered that. He answered honestly, “I don’t trust the _Boltons_. I am confident of our upcoming victory, but I haven’t lived this long by being reckless.”

Jon nodded, seemingly deeming his words to be true enough not to further challenge, “Will she be safe in King’s Landing without you?”

Tywin found himself once again surprised, “She will have her guards. My son Tyrion is there, acting as Hand while I’m away. Tyrion and Tommen are both very fond of your sister.”

“With all due respect to your son and grandson, will that be enough?”

Tywin felt a rumble build in his chest, “Any who would seek to harm _my wife_ are gone. Moreover, you've not concerned yourself with her safety since the day you left for the Wall; I do not believe it’s your place to do so now.”

The young man looked simultaneously guilty and angry; Tywin had dealt an effective strike. With a single nod he turned to leave, so Jon didn’t see the slight curve of his lips.


	44. Compromise

**Tywin**

Tywin ran his calloused hand down his weary face for the tenth time in the last hour, “Is there no limit to your stubbornness, wife?”

“There is not, husband, but I happen to know there is a limit to your patience and energy,” she crossed her arms defiantly. Like so many of his wife’s characteristics Tywin both respected and hated her tenacity. But the time for humoring her reckless insistence that she accompany the Lannister host to Winterfell was over.

Tywin stood from his chair, straightened his doublet, and took two steps in her direction, “Let me clear: this is not a suggestion or a request. It is an order. I admire your courage, wife, though it is born of ignorance in this case. You’ve never been with a war host. You’ve never trudged through snow and mud, camped in tents on the frozen ground, lived off of charred game and stale bread. You’ve never seen the blood that falls when a castle is sieged or when men meet in battle.”

“Tywin, I’m not saying I need to be there for the battle – there are places I can go while—”

“No!” he slammed his fist down, patience officially run out, “I will not bring such a valuable prize within reach of the Boltons or Stannis. If either hears of your presence they need not best us in battle, they need only capture you and force my surrender in exchange for your life, do you not understand this?”

Her mouth opened and shut, and Tywin knew he’d finally gotten through. He maintained his momentum, “Moreover, Tyrion is alone in a sea of Tyrells and all the other backstabbers that occupy King’s Landing. Kevan will be departing with the Royal Fleet and much of the Crown and Lannister army within days. Tommen and Tyrion will need you. Shireen Baratheon will need you; we cannot let Margaery and Olenna be the only women she has for companionship. Let her help you in your work with the poor. Dine with her and Genna and Dorna.”

“You’re manipulating me, husband.”

“Only with the truth.”

She shook her head but offered no more resistance, “You’ll be gone for months.”

Tywin nodded, though it pained him to think of the time they’d be apart, “Three months, maybe four.” It would likely be more, but he would not tell her that now. Dealing with the Boltons would hopefully be swift, but Tywin could not leave until Stannis was eliminated and his men brought to kneel. Then there would be the matter of appointing or electing a Warden of the North and sending a delegate to the Wall to the see the creatures Jon Snow spoke of so fervently. Traveling back to the capital would take more than a month during winter, and little less to travel by sea as Winterfell itself was landlocked. Three, four, five, maybe six months… maybe a year. A year without Sansa. He’d have more wrinkles, more white hairs the next time he saw her, but she’d likely look just as she did now. Aging accelerated as one’s years advanced.

A knock broke Tywin’s thought. “Enter,” he called.

Jaime came in, “You wished for us to dine together this evening?”

“Yes. A meal will be brought along shortly. Sit.”

Jaime knew well his father’s summons always had a practical purpose; Tywin would not delay in divulging the reason for this one, “In two days you will return to the capital with your goodmother.”

Jaime’s lips parted in shock. His eyes flicked between Sansa and Tywin. Eventually he formed a response, “Why?”

“Because a Lannister in the capital right now is more important than a one-handed knight in the battle.”

“I can command men, father. I commanded men to take this Moat!”

“Indeed, and admirably. But I can also command men, as can Ser Addam, as can Jon Snow. But none of us can be a Lannister in the capital right now.”

“You can. You need not go north; I will go in your stead.”

“No. I am not going north as a Lannister; I’m going north as the Hand to King Tommen. Royal banners will fly alongside Lannister and Stark banners.”

“This is ridiculous; I can fly those Royal banners, those Lannister banners… what is this really about?”

“You are Tommen’s guard. Sansa and Tyrion cannot be with him every second of the day, even if they weren’t as busy as they are with their respective duties. _You_ can… Moreover the remainder of the Crown’s Army in the capital is without a senior commander since Ser Addam and Kevan will be in the north. Right now to our enemies we look weak.”

“What enemies? All our enemies are dead or soon to be.”

“Anyone who doesn’t bear the Lannister name is our enemy, or at least has the potential to be. You will return to the capital, you will protect your goodmother, you will protect your king, and you will protect the city. Is that understood?”

Jaime’s face was red with suppressed rage, but he nodded. Sansa, who’d been silent for the entire exchange, spoke up, “I must leave you for a moment to give instructions to the servants.” Tywin knew she was giving them privacy, and he was glad for it, for he had more to say.

“Jaime,” Tywin gentled his tone, “What I ask of you is more important than being a soldier or even a commander in the battle at Winterfell. It is winter in the North – no matter how much the odds are in our favor, I never consider a victory to be assured, and I won’t start now. I could be gone many months. I could catch fever and never return…” Jaime’s eyes widened but Tywin continued in his soft but emotionless tone, “I have every intention of doing what I must to return to my wife. I wish to die old with the smell of sea air around me along with the sound of waves crashing against the rocks of my home. I do not wish to die in the cold, gray, north surrounded by the smell of blood and shit and the sound of whipping winds, or men dying.”

Jaime shook his head, “But?”

“But if that should be the fate that I’m due, then I want my will to be known. Tyrion should be Tommen’s Hand and remain in King’s Landing. Kevan as well, if he is willing, should stay in the Small Council. Once that is established, I’d have you take my wife to Casterly Rock. Protect her; give her children; love her if you’re able, but just…” Tywin waved a hand. This was the first time in his life he’d gone into battle worried about the prospect of not coming back.

“…Sansa can run things; what she doesn’t know, she will learn. All I ask is—”

“I know father. I… I will see your will done, and I’ll protect my… I will protect Sansa, should it come to that. I will preserve our legacy.”

Sansa reentered the room, smiling at Jaime and Tywin, “Our meal shall be delivered shortly.”

Jaime looked at his father and goodmother as if seeing them for the first time. It was an odd expression Tywin could not decipher. Jaime rose, “If you’ll pardon my lapse in etiquette, I think I should see to the plans for our departure in two days. I’ll find my way to the kitchens later.”

Tywin suspected Jaime was leaving to give them privacy, just as Sansa had done. Knowing he had only this night and the next to be with his wife, he did not delay in pulling her into his lap as soon as Jaime had shut the door.

It was difficult to break contact for the rest of the night. They ate with Sansa still in his lap, taking turns feeding each other morsels off their shared plates. They shared the simple dessert of candied figs while laying in bed, naked and sated after a hurried round of lovemaking that Tywin knew would be but the first of the night. She told him more of what she knew of the northern lords, and he gave her messages to share with Tyrion, Tommen, and Olenna Tyrell. They drifted into a light sleep but seemed to both need more, as he awoke and pulled her backside against his hardness only to notice she was already awake. He let the length of his manhood rest between her legs against her wet slit, knowing the frictionless contact would drive her mad with need. He kissed her shoulders and neck and teasingly tugged at her nipples, but she turned the tables on him when she began slowly moving her hips, dragging her wet heat across the top of his shaft, making him flinch every time the sensitive tip was stroked. “Fuck, Sansa,” he mumbled, knowing he had lost this round. Deciding to surrender gracefully he used his weight to roll Sansa onto her belly before lifting her hips up so that she was on elbows and knees. He’d taken her from behind but always bent over a table or desk, never like this. He was afraid she wouldn’t like the notion of being taken on all fours like an animal, but on the contrary, when he slid into her, she practically screamed her pleasure.

“Tywin! Oh Gods, it’s so deep… so deep.”

He’d never seen her come undone so quickly, but she was already panting and clenching and, to his great pleasure, crashing her hips against him with each thrust.

“Fuck. You’re perfect, wife,” he groaned, unable to contain the praise. Her response was a serious of moans and profanities the like of which he’d never heard from her ladylike mouth.

He quickened his pace, knowing how she needed fast friction to peak. Despite spilling his seed not more than two hours ago he was coming close to the edge himself, the sights, sounds, and sensations too much for an old man like him.

“Come for me, wife,” the words came out like a command though inside he was begging.

“Please, Tywin… just… harder, fuck me harder. Fas—faster, please.”

“Fuck, Sansa…” her demands were testing his normally unbreakable restraint and unlimited stamina as he plowed into her to make up for the months of couplings he would miss. She found her bliss just as he did, creating a chorus of her cries and his grunts, before they collapsed together in a sweaty heap.

…

Tywin didn’t remember falling asleep when he awoke the next morning to the sound of someone heaving. His eyes opened and adjusted to the room around him before landing on his wife’s form, huddled over a chamber pot. Even his groggy mind was able to connect the dots. Sansa had been ill frequently on the ship, which they each chalked up to the unfamiliar motions of the sea. Her nausea continued, though much less severe, during their time at the Moat – this he attributed to days in the saddle she was unaccustomed to, then later the anxiety of preparing for the meeting with the northern bannerman. Even now he was tempted to assume her illness could be blamed on fear at the prospect of Tywin and her brother soon leaving for battle. But thinking back on all he knew of his young wife it was clear she was not one to let mental woes affect her physical state. She had a strong constitution – a necessity after all she’d endured during her time in King’s Landing.

Two hours later Maester Lantell, who had traveled with them, confirmed what Tywin suspected the moment he awoke this morning: Sansa was pregnant, probably eight weeks along. What should have been a source of happiness only filled him with dread. She should not travel in this state, but he did not feel comfortable leaving her at the Moat. Further, he feared being parted from her, for the stress it would cause her and for the risk that he would not return in time for the birth of their child and heir.

In addressing Tywin’s first concern, which was the only one he voiced, Lantell nodded, “It is a common misconception that pregnant women should not travel. I can assure you, my Lord Lannister, there is no more risk to an unborn babe by its mother being atop a horse than by its mother partaking in, eh, vigorous marital activities. The young maester blushed to match Sansa’s. “With a maester’s attentive care, your wife will be seen safely home.”

Tywin pinched his nose, “You are sure of this?”

“Quite so, my lord. In fact, most maesters of the Citadel believe that moderate exercise is beneficial to both mother and child. It keeps the mother in good physical form, which assists in the labor, as well as improving blood circulation, which is healthy for the babe. It also ensures the mother does not gain excessive weight, which puts stress on the mother’s body.”

Tywin nodded, “Leave us.” Lantell bowed his exit leaving the couple alone again.

“I’ll not get on a bloody ship again, Tywin!”

“You will and you must; when I agreed we could return by land it was before I knew our host would be proceeding north. I will not have you riding all the way to King’s Landing with only a small regiment of guards. This is not negotiable.”

“Who would attack a Lannister party now?”

“No one, I hope, but you’d be traveling right past The Twins; I do not trust Walder Frey not to try to get his hands on the last Stark.”

“Tywin – that is ridiculous! He won’t—”

“We don’t know that! Moreover, it would be a fortnight journey at least, and the days are growing colder. This is not negotiable, wife. I would not put you through more discomfort for any reason other than to protect you and our child. Your party will ride to White Harbor and sail back to the capital just as we came here. A sennight of travel in a warm ship cabin or more than a fortnight of travel out in the elements. It is not a difficult choice.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes, and Tywin could only sigh, “You will be sick regardless, would you rather be sick on the road, calling the procession to a halt every time you feel the need to retch, or have the privacy of a cabin where you can sleep when you want to and maintain your dignity?”

She still did not concede. Tywin could only shake his head, “On second thought, I think I shall send you to deal with the Boltons. They will fall on their swords to escape the tedium of arguing with such a foolhardy and stubborn woman.”

Finally he got a reaction, as Sansa’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open in shock. He pressed on, “Then I’ll send you to deal with Stannis. I doubt even his Red Priestess has such power to vex a man as you do.”

“You…!”

Tywin quirked a brow, “I what?”

Whatever objection or insult she was prepared to lob gave way to a mischievous smirk, “Then what do you think I’d do to old Walder Frey?”

Tywin chuckled, “I have no doubt there would be songs written about it,” he ran a hand over her silky braid, “but you’re still sailing.”

At his wife’s reddening cheeks, Tywin knew he’d be put through his paces that night…

She did not disappoint.

\-----------------------------------------

**Sansa**

The one benefit to spending seven days violently ill on a ship was that Sansa had no time to worry about her husband or brother or their shared cause. By the third day only Ser Jaime and Maester Lantell were brave enough to even attempt to visit her. Sandor and Ser Andre were conspicuously absent. Jaime tried – ineffectively – to lift her spirits. The maester brought her ginger or peppermint tea and forced her to eat small bites of bread or sip broth. Even those bland foods did not dwell in her stomach long.

It was pointless to try to discern morning sickness from seasickness, so Sansa didn’t bother trying. She only knew the only time she wasn’t vomiting or fighting the urge to vomit was when she was asleep. But her sleep was fitful at best. Nightmares taunted her, depriving her of the few hours she otherwise had to rest. Lantell refused to give her any sedatives – saying they could harm the babe this early in a pregnancy – and the very aroma of wine made her gag.

She would someday look back and laugh about the time she opened the hallway to summon the maester just as Andre was passing a wineskin to Sandor. There were no threats on the Lannister ship, thus the men had nothing to do to pass the time other than drink. Just as Sansa opened her door, she caught a whiff of the offending liquid and with uncharacteristic anger ripped it from Sandor’s hand and threw it down the hall. Both men stared at her, shocked, as she growled with the ferocity of a rabid wolf, _“If I have to smell wine one more time I will have every barrel thrown overboard, along with the fools who dare to drink it in my presence.”_

In her rage she slammed the door shut, forgetting the reason she sought them to begin with. Yanking the door back open she found the two men still frozen in place, eyes and mouths wide open, _“And summon the maester!”_

It was embarrassing, truly, though Lantell assured her that sudden shifts in temperament were common in pregnant women. An hour later when she opened the door and gave a tearful apology to a confused Sandor and Andre, she knew that Lantell spoke true. That had been the third day of her voyage, and she noticed that the rest of the days two other guards were stationed outside her cabin. Sandor and Andre seemed to have wielded their seniority.

So when Sansa stepped off the ship onto the dock, then several steps later onto solid ground, it was hard not to throw herself down and kiss the dirt. She never thought she would be happy coming back to King’s Landing, but she gave smiles to each passing merchant, fishmonger, and commoner. When she inhaled deeply the offensive but familiar smell of the city air, Jaime and her guards probably thought she was mad. When she extracted a promise from Ser Andre to lop her head off before letting her step foot on another ship, they were probably certain of it.

Adding to her cause for revelry, Tyrion was there to greet Sansa and Jaime. Sansa smiled, “Well I see you haven’t burnt the city down, so it seems commendations are in order.”

Tyrion never missed a retort, “Given how great the temptation was, commendations are indeed in order! Ah – this lovely lady must be Lady Shireen.”

Sansa pulled Shireen forward with an arm around her shoulder, “Lady Shireen Baratheon, meet my goodson and good friend, Lord Tyrion Lannister.”

Shireen smiled shyly at Tyrion, who was nearly of a height with her as she was short for her age of four and ten. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips, “It is an honor to meet you, my lady. Your cousin, King Tommen, has looked forward to meeting you, as well, and has arranged for you to sup with him and his betrothed, Lady Margaery, privately tonight, if that would be agreeable.”

Shireen nodded vigorously, clearly excited by the prospect of spending time with someone her own age. It had been years since she had such a companion, and Sansa suspected that even before the war other children ostracized her and she’d spent more time in the company of adults. Though shy, she spoke and carried herself like an adult. Though innocent, she did not appear to be naïve to the ways of the world. Sansa regretted not being well enough to spend time with her on the ship, but Jaime had stepped in to make sure the girl did not feel neglected.

Tyrion beckoned forward a pair of young maids and two Redcloaks. He introduced them to Shireen as her maids and guards, and the girl’s eyes lit at the prospect. Sansa smiled at her, “They will see you to your room. You’ll be staying in the Tower of the Hand so that you can keep me company while my husband is away. They’ll see to everything you need and then escort you to the King’s chambers. Send for me if you need anything, otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow to break our fast together.”

The sweet girl was led away to get her first taste of the luxuries of living in the capital.

Tyrion wasted not a moment, “Come, brother, goodmother, dine with me – we have much to discuss.”

At his words Sansa realized just how hungry she was, “Excellent, I could eat a horse!” She ignored the pained groans behind her, no doubt belonging to men who were now picturing her _vomiting_ back up said horse.

…

It took hours for Sansa and Jaime to enlighten Tyrion on all that had and would transpire in the North, though he already knew the broad strokes from speaking with Ser Kevan before his departure. Then Tyrion shared all that had transpired in their absence.

Tyrion had spent as much time as possible with Tommen and was pleased to report that Tommen was making progress, albeit slowly, in learning the ways of court and politics. Unsurprisingly the Tyrells continued ingratiating themselves with the young king. As far as Tyrion was aware, they’d yet to try to influence the realm through Tommen, but they were laying the foundation for Tommen to view Margaery as his closest advisor and confidante, and everyone knew Margaery was merely a mouthpiece for Olenna.

Sansa nodded, “It is a situation to be monitored, but as long as the Tyrell interests align with our own it is not a cause for concern. With Jaime back he can stand most days with Tommen, and we will all make a point to sup with Tommen and Margaery often. I will have to join her court in the garden more often than I’d like, and I will also invite Margaery to occasionally join me as I see to my welfare duties.”

Jaime’s lips straightened, “You’ll still travel outside the Keep?”

Sansa frowned, “Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

His eyes darted to Tyrion and Sansa realized Jaime’s meaning. She sighed, “I’ve been assured by Maester Lantell it is safe to ride in my… _state.”_

The smarter Lannister brother was uncharacteristically oblivious, “Did you injure yourself on the journey, Sansa?”

Sansa thought about his question and almost laughed before deciding to just share her good news, “No, Tyrion, I’m with child.”

A glimmer of something unreadable passed over his mismatched eyes before he smiled, “Congratulations, dear Sansa!” He circled the table to give her a kind embrace, but Sansa could feel tension in his arms. “You must be thrilled,” he spoke as he pulled back from her, “And I will finally get to know what it feels like to be a _big brother_ – eh, in a matter of speaking.”

Sansa humored him with a giggle and filed away his somewhat odd reaction for future consideration.


	45. Plague

**Sansa**

A fortnight after her return to the capital, Sansa was glad to be heading out to Flea Bottom to check on the orphanages and poorhouses. She more than doubled her guard at Jaime’s insistence, since she’d be joined by Shireen and between the two of them, they were a kidnapper’s fantasy, Jaime jested, though she knew it was largely true.

It was odd to see how Jaime and Tyrion acted in their father’s absence. Tywin’s absence had the opposite effect on the brothers: Tyrion was more at ease, though he did not shirk his duties. Jaime on the other hand seemed almost solemn; less jovial and more focused on his duties. A few times she’d overheard him questioning her guards or giving them instruction to be ever diligent. Sansa began to think it might be her pregnancy rather than Tywin’s absence that brought out this side of Jaime. It pleased her to think he was already feeling protective over the little brother or sister she would give him. Her pregnancy was not yet common knowledge though, and she insisted that no one outside her trusted circle of family and guards know.

_Family._

It was so strange to think of the Lannister brothers and young king as her family, but she did. Even Shireen, who she hadn’t known long, was beginning to feel like a little sister. Sansa felt proud that a few days a week Shireen assisted Tyrion with his duties. It reminded Sansa of her early days with Tywin, acting as his assistant while she waited to learn her fate. Tyrion and Shireen both loved reading and over supper would try to out-do each other with their knowledge of history, dragons, and ancient Valyria.

Without trying to, Shireen was charming everyone around her. Tommen and Margaery wanted to dote on her with gifts and attention. Tyrion and Jaime went out of their way to amuse her. Even Sandor seemed to take a liking to the girl who was ladylike but not pretentious.

As they rode to the orphanage Sansa remembered one of the first times she and Shireen had dined together. Sandor had been standing sentry, and Shireen’s eyes frequently darted to him. After at least twenty minutes of this Sandor rasped, _“Bet you thought your face was bad, little lady.”_

Sansa had blushed crimson at the insult, but Shireen only smiled at Sandor, who responded with a wink. _“I think your face is interesting, Ser,”_ Shireen finally summoned the courage to say.

This time it was Sandor who blushed. Clearly his usual response of ‘bugger off’ wasn’t appropriate to say to a young lady who clearly wasn’t trying to be mean. Shireen continued, _“Ser Davos says my face shows what I’ve endured, and that I should wear my scars proudly.”_

Sandor was clearly at a loss for words. Sansa couldn’t help but smile. She patted Shireen’s hands, _“I happen to agree with Ser Davos. Scars are evidence of a person’s fortitude. And pretty faces can hide dark hearts.”_

 _“Not yours, my lady,”_ Shireen looked down to her plate shyly.

_“I’m sorry?”_

_“You have the prettiest face I've ever seen, but I know you have a good heart. And I think you’re strong, too.”_

Sansa almost wanted to mock the girl for being naïve, much like Sandor used to do to her when she would point out the good in him.

 _Good heart. Hmpf._ Her heart craved vengeance more than anything. She had rejoiced in death and yearned for more of it. And her face was only pretty because Joffrey had been (usually) controlled enough to ensure her wounds lay below the neckline of her gown. For the first time, Sansa realized that she sometimes wished this wasn't the case. She felt a pang of something close to envy toward Sandor and Shireen. No one could look at them and assume they weren't _tough -_ that they weren't survivors. All Sansa had to show for what she'd overcome was a thin, faded scar on her jaw and cheek.

She fully realized now why she had chosen that revealing wedding gown. She had _wanted_ everyone to see the evidence of her trials. But people's memories were unreliable and short; most would look upon Sansa Lannister and see a gentle lady with a pretty face. 

A voice from somewhere within told her to use this to her advantage, but it was little consolation in that moment.

Sansa bit her tongue, neither denying Shireen's assumptions nor thanking her for the compliment. She sat, picked at her food, and tried to avoid Sandor’s knowing eyes which saw into her mind like looking through a freshly washed window.

Sansa shook away the memory and resumed telling Shireen about the programs that had been put in place to educate the orphans.

“It’s wonderful that some of the children are learning their letters!” Shireen exclaimed, “You know, I taught Ser Davos how to read.”

“You did?! How impressive! It is difficult for men grown to learn. Ser Davos is a testament to your skills as a teacher.”

Shireen smiled at the compliment but shrugged, “We had lots of time, and little to do. That is all, my lady.”

They were nearly at the first stop on their tour when a young mother – probably no older than Sansa – ran into the street and yelled to Sansa while holding up her swaddled babe. Two of the guards dismounted to hold the woman back, but it was clear she was desperate, not dangerous. Sansa walked toward the woman who was in a state of utter panic. She ignored the guards and looked only at Sansa, “M’lady, please help… my son is sick, burnin’ up with fever.”

“Can you not take him to a healer?” Sansa asked, suspecting the woman was out for coin, not aid.

“All the healers are busy, m’lady. I haven’t the coin ta make it worth they while.”

Sansa waved her over, “Come with me, the Septas in the orphanage can help. When your son is recovered, you can find some way to make it up to them.”

“Anything, m’lady.”

Only when Sansa entered the orphanage minutes later, it was clear that the Septas and staff had their hands full. The orphanage looked more like a sick tent. Sansa scurried to find the headmistress.

“Mistress Weaver, what is going on here?”

“A plague, m’lady.”

“A plague?!”

The headmistress didn’t stop her rounds as she spoke to Sansa, “All of Flea Bottom is seeing it, past three days. Looks like a common cold but quickly turns to fever. The fever burns right through people like nothing I’ve seen. In others, the fever isn’t so bad, but the cold settles in their lungs and they have trouble breathing. The other poorhouses and orphanages are similarly afflicted, and I’m certain you’d find the same in the general population, though likely to a lesser degree.”

The young mother who’d followed Sansa inside once again plead for help. Mistress Weaver looked unsympathetic, but Sansa knew the woman was simply overwhelmed. The older woman pressed her hand to the babe’s head, “Cold bath and prayer, miss. If you’re lucky enough to find a wise woman or healer they may have herbs for you, but don’t hold out hope.”

The tears that had temporarily ceased were back in the woman’s eyes. Sansa could do nothing to help her and it made her feel sick. Turning back to the headmistress Sansa continued, “What do you need, Mistress Weaver?”

“More hands, mostly.”

“What else?”

The woman finally met Sansa’s eyes, and her face softened slightly as she deemed Sansa’s offer to be genuine, “Healers, if not to treat the sick then to tell us how to do so. Logs to keep the fires going – we’re boiling water day and night and trying to fight the chill. More cots and blankets. Bones or scraps for broth. Anything you can spare, m’lady… Lady Lannister.”

Sansa summoned one of her guards, “Padrick, you know the six poorhouses and orphanages in the area?”

Padrick nodded, “Yes, m’lady.”

“Good. I want you to go to each of them. Collect their healthy – young, old, woman, or man – and have them prepare to congregate in three of the shelters. The sick will congregate at the other three. Small staffs can see to the healthy, but the majority should care for the ill. Wagons will be along soon to transport those too sick to walk. Go now, Padrick.”

With a bow the young guard set off to his task and Sansa summoned another to step forward, “You heard what supplies Headmistress Weaver needs?”

“Yes, m’lady. Cots, meat scraps and bones, firewood, blankets.”

“Good lad, Tyrek. Return to the Red Keep and request all these items from the steward. If need be, Lord Tyrion will approve the expense. Have servants load the items in wagons, but have Ser Jaime assign you enough guards to protect the wagons as you deliver them here.”

Tyrek nodded and left.

“Ser Andre,” Sansa called, and her personal guard stepped forward, “Please see Lady Shireen back to the Tower of the Hand, take as many guards as you need. Sandor and the rest will stay here with me to help as we can. After you’ve delivered Lady Shireen return here with Maester Lantell and that Qyburn. Also inform Grand Maester Pycelle of the situation in Flea Bottom and see if he is hearing similar reports from other locations.”

Andre’s eyes darted to Sandor but neither man objected. Sansa knew it was unwise to linger in this space with so much sickness around her, so she and the guards set about doing what they could outdoors. She set them to chopping firewood and hauling buckets of water into the building. Sansa sat outside in the yard behind the orphanage and worked on stuffing and stitching torn and ripped mattresses. Two of the guards picked apples and strawberries from the garden so the staff could make fruit puree. It was nearly two hours before Ser Andre returned with the two maesters. Sansa didn’t trust the mysterious Qyburn, but she knew he had most likely saved Ser Jaime’s life by properly tending to the wound where his hand had been severed, and her options were limited.

Lantell and Qyburn assessed the situation and made recommendations to the staff as to how the sick should be treated.

Another two hours passed before the supply wagons arrived. Sansa gave instructions as to where to deliver the supplies and ordered the guards to then go to each of the shelters and collect either sick or healthy according to Padrick’s instructions.

It was dusk before Sansa, her guards, and the maesters returned to the Red Keep. Sansa was exhausted but needed to consult with the maesters as soon as possible. Joining her for the evening meal both men gave their assessment.

Lantell began, “After speaking with the sick and the caretakers it is clear that this illness is more potent than the typical cold. It saps the body of all energy. The fever that accompanies it is severe, as is the accumulation of fluid in the lungs. We do not yet have a significant sample size, but it is clear that the elderly are in greatest danger of succumbing.”

Sansa nodded, “What has caused this?”

Lantell shrugged, “It is common for colds to afflict the population during times of weather change, as we are experiencing now. The change of seasons is a time when many become ill, though certainly not so severely as this.”

“What can be done?”

“The traditional methods and herbs used to treat fever, my lady. I’m afraid other than that only rest and increasing the intake of fluids will help. The relatively healthy should survive it, those with weak compositions, the very old, and the very young will be most susceptible to… well, to death.”

Sansa turned to Qyburn who’d been quiet but nodded along to most of what Maester Lantell had said, “Do you have anything to add, maester?”

“I agree with Maester Lantell. I also noticed this sickness seems to be spreading rapidly. There were no cases at the orphanage as of four days ago. Today about half were ill. That is unheard of.”

“And what does that mean for how we respond to this plague?”

Qyburn paused, “Isolate the sick to the extent possible. You were wise my lady to do that at the poorhouses and orphanages, but it should be done city-wide.”

Sansa snorted, “It wasn’t wise; I only meant to make it easier to pool our resources in fewer locations.”

Qyburn bowed his head, “Well your effort at efficiency may help slow the spread. I’d like to also tell you about experiments I have conducted.”

“I’ve heard of your studies and experiments, maester. You will not turn the shelters of King’s Landing into your own personal laboratories,” Sansa’s tone left no room for argument.

If Qyburn was insulted, he did not show it, “I wasn’t going to suggest that, my lady. I was going to tell you that I have extensively studied the transmission of contagious diseases. It is common belief that close or even intimate contact is how disease spreads. An ill child kisses her mother. Mother kisses father. Father kisses… _other_ women.”

“Yes, I am aware of this.”

“I believe that disease can also be spread through the passing of contaminated objects. The mother picks up her sick son’s toys, then touches serving utensils which the father also touches. And so on.”

“How is that possible?”

“I do not know. I briefly studied this but moved onto… different pursuits.”

Sansa looked to Lantell, who nodded his agreement, “I cannot explain it, but I don’t disbelieve Maester Qyburn’s theory. It would explain how some diseases can spread so rapidly. Surely not all the sick children of the orphanage had direct contact with one another, but they most certainly touched the same items and surfaces – ladle in the soup pot, the door to the privy, communal toys…”

“And if this theory is correct, how would we combat this? We can’t tell sick people not to use the privy.”

Lantell nodded, “Which is why isolating the sick from the healthy is so critical, my lady.”

“Any other advice, maesters?”

Lantell nodded once more, “In my time at the Citadel I studied theories around disease resistance. Did you know there have been confirmed instances of a person being in direct contact with the greyscale without contracting the disease?”

“No, I did not know that. You believe some people are resistant to other diseases as well, such as the one that is ravaging our shelters?”

“Indeed, my lady. Many who care for the ill will become sick themselves, but those who do not are likely resistant, or _immune_ to the disease. It’s a phenomenon also observed in cattle.”

“And what good is this knowledge to me?”

Lantell frowned, “Only to assure you that those who treat the ill but do not fall ill themselves within a few days are likely safe from contracting it. It is a reassurance you can offer the caretakers so that they do not shy away from their duties.”

“I understand, Maester Lantell. Thank you both for your counsel and for your services today.”

Sansa had much to ponder, but within minutes of the maesters departing her dining room she laid on the bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.

\------------------------------------

In the fortnight that followed the plague spread quickly throughout the capital and soon it seemed as if the normal distinctions within the population fell away – there were only the sick and the healthy. The sick were suffering greatly, but the healthy were burdened with tending to the ill while maintaining their households and sources of income, if possible.

Ravens from Dorne, the Westerlands, and the Reach confirmed cases of the disease, though it seemed King’s Landing was most seriously affected – likely because of the close proximity in which people lived and worked. Grand Maester Pycelle estimated that 40% of the population in King’s Landing was affected at any given time. The mortality rate was about 20%, and even higher in the very old, very young, or those with chronic health ailments such as breathing disorders or weak hearts.

The orders to isolate sick from healthy were emphasized repeatedly, but compliance was lacking, and Sansa could understand the hesitation to send one’s child or spouse away to the care of strangers.

Certain buildings within the capital, including the Great Sept of Baelor, housed the sick who willingly left their homes. Maesters, healers, and Septas tended to the ill as best they could in these sick buildings. Commoners were recruited and given basic training so they could also help treat the ill. The Small Council, which now consisted of only Sansa, Pycelle, Tyrion, Lord Mace, and Ser Jaime met daily. Lord Mace had sent a raven to his son Willas at Highgarden requesting supplies and food, and he assured the council it would arrive soon. A similar plea was sent to the head steward at Casterly Rock, signed by both Sansa and Tyrion.

Commerce had largely ground to a halt. Despite how alarming that was, they could not force sick people to work and conduct trade when they were barely able to get out of bed.

Sansa herself had seen much of the devastation firsthand and it was both frightening and disheartening. The normally bustling streets of King’s Landing were quiet and almost empty. Those who were well stayed home, afraid of leaving their homes and contracting the illness. Those who were ill couldn’t leave if they wanted to. By day Sansa toiled and delegated, by night she was so exhausted she couldn’t summon the energy to worry or cry. Maester Lantell monitored her pregnancy closely and assured her the babe was healthy and repeated his cautions not to over-exert herself, but it could not be avoided.

Sansa had to resist the temptation to think about what was going on in the North. By now, Tywin and the northern armies would be nearing Winterfell. Kevan would have already reached the eastern coast, but whether the attack on the Dreadfort had started yet, Sansa did not know. She wondered if this plague had made it to the North. The idea of Jon or Tywin becoming ill while they had only tents for shelter filled her with dread. Her husband at times seemed invincible, but at his age she worried that contracting the disease would be a death sentence.

Nearly a moon after the first cases of the plague had been reported, the cursed disease had made its way into the Red Keep. The maesters reported cases among the guards and servants, and within days some of the members of court had taken ill. After that, each morning brought more somber news. Lady Margaery and King Tommen were now among the ill. Next to take ill was Ser Jaime. Then Lord Tyrion. Maester Lantell himself began showing symptoms but worked through them for two days until he was too weak to be of any use. Each day Sansa herself woke sure that she would feel the ominous chills, fever, or wheezing cough, but she didn’t. She began to feel like a maester herself, checking in on her ailing kin daily to make sure they were being properly tended. It was a job without glory, but they were so short-staffed with many of the city’s servants and healers being ill, that she did it without complaint.

The only time it became unbearable was when someone she cared about reached the apex of the illness – the days when their fever was so strong you could feel heat radiating off of their bodies while sitting three feet away. Or when a fit of coughing lasted so long that they became blue in the face. Or when the fluid in their lungs was such that Sansa could hear rattling with every inhalation.

Sansa felt weary when she walked to the Small Council room on this day. It was only morning and her bed was already calling to her. The Small Council was now only herself, Pycelle, and Lord Mace. Tyrion and Jaime were confined to Tyrion’s room by choice – so they could talk to one another when they felt well enough, and so that any servants or maesters could see them both more efficiently. Many of the ill guards were similarly situated – choosing to bunk three or four to a room. Sansa wondered if it was fear that drove them to do this – fear of dying alone.

She shook away the morbid thought and forced herself to focus on what Pycelle was reporting. About half the population had or was recovering from the illness, though more fell ill daily. The mortality rate had increased to nearly thirty percent as the maesters’ supplies of medicinal tinctures and herbs to treat the fever had run out (or more accurately, what little remained was reserved for only the noble lords and ladies of court and of course King Tommen and his future bride). Margaery and Tommen were originally to be married in a moon, but Sansa was certain it would be delayed due to Tywin and Garlan’s absence and – of course – the plague.

Sansa did the math – about 15% of the population of King’s Landing might succumb to this disease. It was an alarming number and she found it hard to believe the maester’s estimates, though he had no reason to lie. Joffrey’s voice echoed in her mind: _“It’s good to thin the herd now and then… fewer mouths to feed in the coming winter.”_ She cursed his ghost. Out of any seven people, there was a good chance one of them would die. She thought of how many people she cared about. Tyrion, Jaime, and Tommen were already sick. Generously she counted Lady Margaery. That was four. There was Sandor and Ser Andre – that made six. Shireen made seven. That didn’t even include the servants and guards she was acquainted with, or the children and staff in the shelters that she knew from her outings.

She couldn’t think about that now. She listened to the reports from Mace Tyrell – the shipments of food and supplies had, blessedly, arrived from Highgarden, as had those from Casterly Rock. They also received an unexpected delivery of goods from Dorne accompanied by a note penned by Myrcella Baratheon addressed to her uncle Tyrion. Tears welled in her eyes as she read the note aloud for her two companions to hear. Then Pycelle handed Sansa a sealed scroll that had arrived early that morning. She knew by the marking in the wax it was from her husband, and she clutched it tightly as if she expected someone to rip it away.

She had too much to do and oversee to read it now, for she feared his words would reduce her to a puddle of tears. She tucked it into her cloak pocket and set out to inspect the supplies with Lord Mace. She instructed some of the wagons containing perishable foods to be delivered to the various shelters and sick houses along with clean linens and bedding. The rest of the food would be moved to the stores in the Red Keep to be distributed over time. Sansa knew the importance of rationing during times like these. She herself had never lived through a period of food scarcity while growing up, but both her parents stressed how dire a situation could become during a long winter. The north had seen some winters that killed as much as 30% of the population due to hunger, illness, and cold. It was one of the reasons the north’s numbers would never match those of the southern kingdoms. 

After giving the necessary commands Sansa went to visit Tommen. He was still feverish but Maester Pycelle thought his chances for recovery were good, given his age and general good health. Sansa next went to Margaery’s chambers but gasped when she saw Olenna Tyrell was tending to the girl.

“Lady Olenna! You should not have left your quarters, you risk infecting yourself!”

Olenna scoffed, “I’m a tough old bat, takes more than a little fever to kill me. Besides I don’t trust the serving wench-turned-maester that tends to my granddaughter.”

“I thought your personal Maester was supervising her care.”

Olenna rolled her eyes, “That old fool went and got himself sick, just like your private maester. What good are they, I ask?”

“Please, let me tend to Lady Margaery, and I will summon Maester Qyburn.”

“No need, I know all about fever. I’m making sure she drinks plenty of tea and water, and I’m cooling her down with damp cloths when she gets too warm, then bundling her up when she gets the chill. What more will a maester do?”

Sansa rubbed her forehead, “As you wish, Lady Olenna. I cannot stop you.”

“I’m glad you have some sense, child. Tell me, how’s the babe?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Olenna pinned her with a glare, “You’re with child, are you not?”

“I- well, yes, but I haven’t told anyone except my good-sons and closest retainers.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“How did you know?”

“I’ve been pregnant and around pregnant women enough to see the early signs. Your face looks a bit rounder. Your skin is even clearer and brighter than usual. And you touched your belly three times since we’ve been speaking.”

Sansa snatched her hand away from her belly, earning a laugh from Olenna.

“So? I asked how the babe is.”

“Well, I think. At least it was the last time Maester Lantell checked.”

Olenna grinned, “And now that he is ill, you don’t want to let Pycelle’s bony old fingers anywhere near you.”

Sansa felt her cheeks heat, but she couldn’t deny the truth.

Olenna laughed again, “I’d tell you to find yourself a wisewoman or midwife but they seem to be in high demand. You’ve had no bleeding, have you?”

Sansa shook her head.

“Good,” Olenna nodded, “No pain, like what you get with your moonblood?”

“No.”

“Have you felt any movement yet?”

“No. Should I have?”

“That depends – how long has it been?”

“About three moons.”

“Then no. Another moon, more likely two. Are you sick in the mornings?”

“I had been. I think I’ve willed it to stop. I’m far too busy to spend twenty minutes each morning bent over a chamber pot. Now I only feel the nausea when I smell certain things. Like meat cooking.”

“Then it sounds like everything is as it should be!”

Sansa couldn’t help but smile, “Thank you Lady Olenna, you have eased my mind.”

With a curtsy she left the older woman’s company and proceeded to her next stop. Tyrion and Jaime were both awake when she entered, and it was a struggle not to recoil at their appearances. The normally tan lions were downright ashen. When Tyrion coughed it sounded like there was an acorn rattling around in his chest. Jaime was shivering violently.

“This will warm you, Ser Jaime,” Sansa poured a glass of wine and helped Jaime sit forward to take a sip. The effort to sit up and drink seemed to exhaust him, for he fell back against the pillows.

“That won’t due… the maesters say you should sleep upright,” Sansa pulled him forward again, propping him up against her chest while the other arm fluffed and piled up his bed pillows, “There, that’s better.”

Tyrion, unsurprisingly, managed a jape between coughs, “My turn mommy!”

Rolling her eyes Sansa poured him a glass of wine and held it to his lips, “I never thought I’d see the day when Tyrion Lannister couldn’t lift a goblet to his mouth.”

“I can, it’s just more fun to have a pretty serving wench do it for me!”

Jaime chuckled at his words which spurred on a fit of coughing. It did not sound good.

Tyrion looked at Sansa, all evidence of jest now gone from his eyes, “How bad is it?”

“Not so bad,” she shrugged.

“You’re many things, goodmother, but accomplished liar is not one of them.”

Sansa snorted, “Pycelle says half of the city has it. We’re running out of herbs and tinctures. Thirty percent of the afflicted will perish.”

Tyrion winced at the dreadful news.

“It’s not all bad. Highgarden and Casterly Rock sent much-needed provisions, though I haven’t asked what it will cost us. And it looks like your lovely niece took it upon herself to send us a gift,” Sansa pulled the note from her pocket and read it aloud to Tyrion and Jaime.

Tyrion’s cheeks reddened with suppressed tears, “She was always the sweetest Lannister. I’m glad to hear of the supplies, though I do hate owing the Martells.”

“As do I, but it is a debt I will gladly pay.”

Sansa sat in the cushioned chair and rested her eyes. Tyrion’s raspy breathing turned steady, alerting her that he had fallen back to sleep. The sound was rather soothing, and she thought it would be alright if she just slept for a little while…

A crash yanked her violently from her twilight and Sansa bolted upright, finding the source of the noise to be a cup of water that Jaime had spilled. Jaime was quietly cursing himself as he tried to reach for the cup, but Sansa beat him to it.

“Jaime why didn’t you wake me? You need to rest.”

“I can reach for a damned water cup myself,” he croaked.

“This is evidence to the contrary,” Sansa pointed at the puddle of water on the floor, but Jaime was unamused.

He sat back heavily against the pillows, looking exhausted by the very minimal movement.

“What’s wrong, Jaime?”

He spoke through gritted teeth, “ _This_ is wrong. You are with child. You should be in bed resting, having people pour your water and fluff your pillows. Not me.”

“Jaime, it’s not as if this is by choice. You can’t help getting sick.”

“It doesn’t matter, I’m supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around. You’re the Lady of Casterly Rock, the Hand’s wife, and you have been reduced to a nursemaid.”

He turned to look out the window, obviously ashamed to make eye contact.

“Did your father tell you to take care of me?” she asked gently.

Jaime snorted, “Yes, and as usual I’m failing. Only thing I was ever good at was swinging a sword. You’re practically running the kingdom and finding time to play nurse.”

“I am doing nothing you couldn’t or wouldn’t do if our fates were reversed.”

“If you believe that, then you’re selling yourself short. Shireen told Tommen and I all about how you sprung into action at the orphanage. You’re like a commander improvising during a battle, it’s impressive,” Jaime fell into a fit of coughing.

“You shouldn’t speak so much, Jaime. You need to rest.” She could find no words that would ease his troubles, and was nearly at the door when she stopped, knowing that she could find a way for him to feel helpful, by allowing him to give her something she desperately needed.

She turned back around but did not approach, “I’m worried about… about our men. About your father. About Jon. About Kevan. Less than a year ago Tywin Lannister was my captor. Now… now I’m afraid, Jaime. Afraid he won’t come back. That he’ll die to either sword or cold or sickness. I’m afraid he won’t meet his…” She couldn’t finish the words as the sobs she’d held in for weeks broke free.

Jaime tried to stand but she knew he was too weak. Sansa rushed to sit on his bedside, allowing him to cover her two hands with his one, “My father is the toughest son of a bitch that ever lived. When he wants something, he gets it. And what he wants more than anything is to return to you, Sansa. And he will personally kill every Bolton, every Stag, and every decrepit wight if that’s what is needed.”

Sansa could help a chuckle at picturing a sneering Tywin chopping through man after man, feeling insulted by their very existence. Her laugh pulled forth a laugh from Jaime, which brought on more coughing. She patiently waited for it to subside.

“Our side has all the advantages. My father won’t take on unnecessary risk like younger, less experienced commanders tend to do. He also will seek a peaceful resolution with Stannis’ men. There may be no blood spilled at all. Even the Boltons may surrender once they realize how outnumbered they are.” He had to pause again to drink some wine. “As for getting sick, my father is no ordinary man. The Great Lion does _not_ get sick,” Jaime mimicked his father’s stony voice, “Fevers are for women and lesser men!” another fit of coughing followed, and Sansa could see Jaime’s eyes were drooping. She poured him some water and bid him to lay back and go to sleep. Sansa gave his hand one more squeeze and a smile that she hoped conveyed her thanks.

“You’re going to be a wonderful mother,” Jaime whispered.

Tears welled again, though this time she couldn’t tell if they were from happiness or sorrow. She forced a smile, “And you’re already a wonderful son,” she nodded toward Tyrion’s sleeping form, “and brother.”

The rest of the day was a blur of errands and orders, and Sansa was glad for the distractions, no matter how taxing they were. It wasn’t until she was dressed for bed that she read the scroll sent by her husband. She broke the wax and unrolled it carefully, as if it was a delicate and precious flower. As she read each word, she could hear Tywin’s stern yet smooth voice speaking in her ear.

> _Lady Sansa,_
> 
> _We have made camp two miles south and west of Winterfell. Judging by the state of disrepair of the walls I had hoped to secure a surrender, but it seems the Bolton bastard is both arrogant and reckless. He made a mockery of our attempt to treat with him. I suspect he believes his wife truly is your sister Arya and that it will give him some leverage. If this belief makes him act foolishly then it will work in our favor. Regardless, we greatly outnumber the Boltons and I foresee no difficulty in reclaiming your home under the Stark and Lannister banners._
> 
> _Through messenger I know that Ser Kevan and his squadron are prepared to lay siege to the Dreadfort. The attacks will begin on the morrow. By the time you receive this note, we may already hold both great fortresses of the north._
> 
> _Your half brother has proven to have a keen mind for battle strategy, and his knowledge of Winterfell is invaluable. He remains adamant about refusing any appointment as Warden, which I believe is for the best. I’ve come to trust that he would hold Winterfell admirably and relinquish control with grace when our heir comes of age, yet that does not mean the northern lords would look forward to that day. As illogical as it may sound, a Warden without Stark blood may give us a better hold on the North. I’m sure you disagree._
> 
> _On the matter of Wardens, I suspect that Lord Glover will be good a choice. The man is no fool, and he has the respect of his fellow Northmen. He appears to be loyal to the Stark name and has told me on more than one occasion that he was impressed by you, my lady. He praised your poise, diplomacy, and keen mind – as if I don’t know this better than anyone._
> 
> _I trust matters in the capital are well in hand now that you are there to keep Tyrion in line. I reiterate my words from one of our last conversations – take Lady Shireen under your wing. I trust she is a young woman more enamored with lions and wolves than flowers. Continue your work with the smallfolk and work to ensure we are well provisioned for winter._
> 
> _Speaking of flowers and winter, your brother pointed out a blue winter rose peeking through the snow. He said they are quite rare. A man who believes in signs would interpret this to foretell victory for our side. A man such as I, who does not put stock in prophecies and other nonsense, would say it was simply a welcome reminder of the color of his wife’s eyes, which he has gone too long without seeing._
> 
> _I will send another letter after our victory, and again when we treat with Stannis. I have every intention of being with you when our heir comes into the world, but if I fail in this endeavor, rest assured I will make it up to you for the rest of my days._
> 
> _Be well._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Tywin_

Sansa clutched the missive to her heart and curled around herself in bed. Her husband’s words weren’t dripping with affection, and yet they were the sweetest she’d ever read or heard. He missed her. The immovable Tywin Lannister missed her. He was reminded of her by a blue winter rose. He worried about making it home in time for her labor. Sansa thought about how he lost his first wife and imagined Tywin must have similar concerns for her. Mere months ago Sansa would have suspected Tywin Lannister would be perfectly content with losing a wife if it meant bringing his heir into the world – his heir with a claim on both Winterfell and Casterly Rock. Now Sansa knew without a trace of doubt that her death would pain him, just as his would pain her.

Still clutching the parchment to her chest she cried herself to sleep, only waking when heavy hands beat on her door at dawn…


	46. Posturing

**Sandor**

Her copper hair fluttered in the salty breeze as they stood upon the eastern battlements of the Red Keep. Her eyes narrowed as she looked out across the bay to the mouth of the sea. The fear in Sandor’s gut was not reflected in her eyes, though he knew it was there.

“How many?” she asked.

“I count at least fifty,” Lord Mace answered as he peered through the periscope. “Came into view around dawn. Have anchored at sea just beyond the bay,” the fat lord repeated what they had already been told.

“Won’t sail into the bay. Learned Stannis’ lesson,” Sandor grumbled. He woke this morning feeling like a horse had been sleeping on his head. The news that Ironborn ships were in sight did nothing to ease his discomfort, though he’d not burden his lady with his troubles now.

Sansa continued staring at the sea, her mind clearly at work. Then, with a sudden motion, she turned, addressing one of the guards nearby, “I want to be alerted the moment anything changes – if their ships move or if they send forth a convoy.”

She was descending the stairs so fast that Sandor struggled to keep up and felt light-headed as he did so. Sansa spoke quietly over her shoulder, “I must meet with Lord Tyrion and Maesters Qyburn and Pycelle. With Ser Jaime indisposed I need you and Ser Andre to take account of our forces; find out who the next highest-ranking military commander is and have him begin to prepare our defenses; however inadequate they may be.”

“You shouldn’t be unguarded, little bird,” Sandor rasped.

At the sound of his voice Sansa’s head snapped around and her eyes narrowed, “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” she pressed a cool hand to his warm forehead and hissed through her teeth. “You’re sick,” her voice hitched with concern that Sandor was unaccustomed to.

“I’m fine… started last night. I should be of use to you for at least the rest of today.”

She huffed out her displeasure, “Deliver my message to Ser Andre then retire immediately. I’ll send Qyburn to tend to you. If he or anyone finds you out of bed after this hour is through, I’ll have you tied down. Don’t test me.”

Sandor knew he was unwell when he couldn’t even form a filthy image or witty retort at the thought of being tied to his bed at Sansa’s orders. Sweat was dripping down his temples, and the ground beneath him felt unsteady.

“Fine, I’ll rest, but not before gathering some guards to accompany you. And if there’s need to kill squids someone had better wake me.” Ignoring propriety he turned on his heel and walked toward his quarters, leaving the little bird no chance to squawk at him.

**Sansa**

The sun was nearly at its apex when Sansa stood at the shore watching a small boat grow larger as it was rowed toward her. In the last few hours she had ravens sent to Casterly Rock, Lord Royce at the Vale, Willas Tyrell in Highgarden, Lord Mathis who was holding Storm’s End for House Tyrell, and – taking a gamble – Prince Doran Martell in Dorne. Taking yet another chance she sent one to the Dreadfort – hoping Ser Kevan was now holding it. But most of those allies – should any answer her call – would arrive in more than a fortnight. Lord Mathis would have been her best chance, but his fleet was paltry – the once great Baratheon fleet was mostly destroyed in the Battle of the Blackwater; what wasn’t burned, Stannis sailed north. The Crown’s allies could help defend the castle from siege, but only if Lord Mathis, Dorne, the Vale, and Ser Kevan answered her call would they stand a chance in a maritime battle.

Sansa steeled herself for a meeting with – she assumed – the crazed Ironborn leader, Euron Greyjoy. She needed to accomplish two things: delay any attack that Euron had planned, most likely by offering some benefit of a temporary truce, and make sure Euron did not suspect how horrible the plague situation was in King’s Landing. If he knew how easy it would be to overrun the capital, then all would be lost.

Sansa stood with Lord Mace, Ser Andre, and four guards. Completing their party was Ser Jaime, who insisted on joining them despite being terribly ill. The worst of his fever had passed, but he was still weak and pale and prone to fits of coughing that he promised Sansa he could suppress. Knowing the presence of the famed Lannister knight would help their cause, Sansa could only object so long before submitting to his demands.

Stationed above them on the battlements were all the archers that could stand and hold a bow.

Sansa’s heart was drumming inside her chest, but she knew on the outside she looked indifferent, cold even. She watched as six men debarked the small rowboat. A man of middling height with dark hair and an eyepatch sauntered up to their group with a predatory grin on his lips.

“Euron Greyjoy, I presume?” her voice sounded loud and clear, not betraying her inner fears.

He nodded his head once, “You seem to have me at a disadvantage. You know me, but I don’t know you. Has the king sent his mistress out to treat with me? Or are you the flower to which he is betrothed?”

“I am neither. I am Lady Sansa Lannister, acting Hand to King Tommen Baratheon.” She gestured to her companions, “You may know by name my goodson, and the Commander of the Crown’s Armies, Ser Jaime Lannister… and King Tommen’s soon-to-be goodfather, Lord Mace Tyrell.”

Euron’s eyes darted to Jaime and Mace only a moment before landing back on Sansa. He stepped forward and reached for her hand, planting a kiss on her knuckles without breaking eye contact. Behind her Ser Andre shifted on his feet.

Euron straightened and took one large step back, hands clasped behind his back, “And where might the good King Tommen be?”

“Let’s not play games, Lord Greyjoy… you didn’t sail here at this time by coincidence. Your scouts saw much of our fleet and part of our army sail north. You think we are weak now, that you can take the city by force.”

Euron smiled at her, “Yet you seem unconcerned.”

“I’m more than familiar with your ways, Lord Greyjoy. You raid coastal towns, attack fishing villages, merchant ships. You think killing peasants makes you fierce. If you’d like to try your luck at sieging a compound as well guarded and defended as the Red Keep, be my guest. Perhaps in losing you will learn a lesson you can use for your next misguided mission, assuming you survive.”

Euron made to step forward again but in a seamless motion Ser Andre stepped up and placed his sword between Sansa and Euron. It was a warning, not an attack. Euron turned to him, “Relax. I mean no harm to your Lady. Under my rule, it is a crime to waste such a lovely treasure, at least before it’s been thoroughly _used.”_

Euron stayed where he was but turned back to Sansa with a snarl, “Your king is gone. Obviously, the great lion is gone, leaving behind only his maimed cub. How many of your men went with them? How many men gone that they send a woman out to speak on behalf of the king?”

Sansa clasped her hands in front of her, “Have you come here to leer at me and ask questions? Or have you come to demand some terms because you believe you have the upper hand?”

Another lopsided grin was her answer, “Neither. I’ve come to offer a gift. Well, more accurately, to sell something I’m sure your king and husband would be very interested in buying.” Euron pulled a periscope from his belt, “Please, lady lion, see what I have brought to trade,” Euron handed her the periscope eagerly. With a huff she took it.

“What specifically am I looking for, Lord Greyjoy?”

“The ship I came from, center of the fleet and closest to us… You’ll know when you see it.”

Sansa scanned the horizon, seeing many ships, but none bearing anything worth note. It took the better part of a minute before she located the correct ship, and when she focused her view she gasped, much to her own displeasure. There on the deck of the ship was a short woman with silver-white hair, bound at the wrists. Sansa dropped the periscope as if the woman would be able to see her back, which caused Euron to laugh.

“Daenerys Targaryen,” Sansa whispered, and beside her Jaime tensed.

“ _And_ her dragons,” Euron grinned.

As Sansa’s eyes widened, he picked up the periscope, blew off the sand and handed it to her, “Look at the far side of the ship.”

Sure enough, when she did as told, she saw three dragons chained to the ship with heavy manacles around their necks. Their mouths were opening and shutting repeatedly as if crying out, but from this distance Sansa could not hear them. Judging by the height of the man nearest to the dragon – though still many paces away – she estimated their length to be nearly twenty feet from nose to tail.

When she stared back at Euron, he clearly reveled in her state of shock, “The Targaryen bitch is for sale; the dragons are priceless to me.”

Sansa arched a brow, “Then why bring them here?”

His head retracted, “Who would I trust to leave them with? Besides, I wanted you to see that I am not a man to be trifled with. Between my fleet – the realm’s largest – and my dragons, there are none who can beat me.”

“What do you seek, Lord Greyjoy?”

He changed the subject, “Your docks are quiet since we arrived. Barely a soul in sight.”

Sansa was prepared for this, though she could only hope her lie would be believed, “Indeed. Any other week of the year the harbors and docks are bustling with commerce and activity. Since King Robert Baratheon’s death, however, the week of his nameday is celebrated throughout the city. It is an official holiday. Depending on how long you plan to stay, you shall see King’s Landing in its full glory.”

Euron squinted up at the battlements, “I see your guards are not on holiday.”

At this Jaime answered with a snort, “Of course not. Rest is a luxury of the smallfolk this week. The Crown never ceases its protection of the city. Now, the lady asked what you are seeking. Why are you here, Lord Greyjoy?”

“Don’t you wish to ask how I came to have the dragons and their mother in my possession?”

Jaime cleared his throat, “You seem to be delaying the stating of your purpose. One might think you’re not confident in your plan.”

“On the contrary, Kingslayer, I have every reason to be confident. But I am in no rush and am rather enjoying the company of your lovely goodmother.”

Ser Andre and Ser Jaime stepped forward in unison, but Sansa stilled them with her hands, “Lord Greyjoy cannot harm me with words, no matter how vile his tongue. Please, Lord Greyjoy, continue.”

He offered a smarmy wink, “No woman has ever complained about my tongue before,” his lopsided grin and yellow teeth made Sansa want to retch.

The man straightened, standing tall and proud, “As I was going to say, I had been in discussions with the Dragon Queen. She sought to use my ships to ferry her Dothraki warriors to Westeros so she can take the Iron Throne. Sixty thousand horse lords. Of course, in such an agreement I’d also lend her my thirty thousand men.”

Jaime interrupted before he could continue, “Ninety thousand men on sixty ships? It would take many trips, would it not? Our forces would decimate yours, one bit at a time.”

“You’re forgetting about her dragons.”

Sansa took over, “ _Baby_ dragons, by the look of it, which will take years to reach their full size, and even longer for their scales to harden into armor. But I’ll play along with your fantasy, Lord Greyjoy. Let’s assume I believe you have a chance in besting us. Tell me what the Dragon Queen has offered you.”

Euron paced back and forth on the sand, still with a swagger, but Sansa could tell she had wounded him.

“That, lady lion, is where the Queen and I found our causes were not aligned.”

“Let me guess – you want to _ravage_ all of Westeros, and she wants to _rule_ it? Or is it simply that you want to be her King, and she can’t stand the idea of letting your stink anywhere near her?”

Euron’s smile fell away just as Sansa’s formed, “You also know Ser Jaime is right – you could never transport an army the size of hers. It would take _years_ , giving us and our allies plenty of time to attack. Daenerys wants her armies here to help her not just claim but also _hold_ the Seven Kingdoms, and you don’t have the patience for that.”

Jaime smirked, “No, the great Crow’s Eye doesn’t want to die an old, grey, ferryman…”

Sansa nodded, “And, most importantly, you don’t trust this Targaryen Queen with three full-grown dragons. Your Iron Islands are fairly safe… isolated… difficult to siege… but an overhead attack from three fire-breathing dragons… that is not something you look forward to, but it is a fate you shall meet if you try to maintain the independence of your homeland.”

Sansa sighed as if bored with the exchange, “So you’ve come to sell Daenerys Targaryen to King Tommen. You’re confident his grandfather, my lord husband, will pay up. And if he doesn’t, you hope to force his hand by threatening to align with Daenerys Targaryen and attack us. But since we’ve just discussed how improbable that is, I must assume you mean to attack us _now_ , because you think we are weak.”

Jaime snorted beside her, “Too bad, sixty thousand half-naked horse lords who know nothing of castle siege… it would be a good exercise for our archers. They’d pick them off before they make it past this beach. It would take longer to dispose of all the bodies than to kill them.”

Sansa turned to watch Jaime speak. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and she knew he was expending considerable energy just standing there, but to anyone who didn’t know Ser Jaime well, he was the very image of the arrogant Kingslayer.

She picked up his argument, “And if you try to attack now, you will not succeed, I’m sorry to tell you. Do you think we don’t know why you haven’t sailed into the bay? Your _dragons_ may not burn, though there is evidence to the contrary in Targaryen history tomes, but your boats and men most certainly will.”

A small cough slipped passed Jaime’s throat, though he played it off as a chuckle, “Ask Stannis Baratheon, who sailed here with forty-thousand men, and now hides at the Wall with five thousand.”

Euron’s jaw clenched. They had him where they wanted him, now it was time to extend an offer… let him believe he could leave King’s Landing with his pride intact _only_ if he did not attack.

Sansa sighed, “It would be easy enough to dispose of your men and fleet, Lord Greyjoy, but that is quite wasteful, and my husband _despises_ waste. As a matter of fact, he was preparing to reach out to you with the offer of a marriage alliance – his own daughter in exchange for your loyalty – before her untimely death. You see, King Tommen and Lord Lannister are in the business of making allies, not enemies. Now I’m afraid I am out of time, running the Kingdom in my husband’s absence is an arduous task. Return to your ship, Lord Greyjoy. Make no move against us, and we will make none against you. Think on my words and consider what you’re willing to contribute to an alliance, and what you seek in return. Shall we meet again in four days’ time?”

“Give you time to scheme against me, you mean?” he snarled.

“You’re out at sea. You may sail in any direction at a moment’s notice. Unless you know of a fleet that could challenge yours, you have no cause for worry.”

He glared at her, searching for deceit.

“You’ve been weeks at sea – perhaps months, yes?”

Euron nodded slowly, eye narrowed.

“Then as a gesture of my good intentions, send one rowboat from each of your vessels back to this beach at dusk. I will have fresh fruit and fresh water delivered here for you. It will be less generous than I would wish, but we are building our stores in preparation for winter… I ask nothing in return but the promise to continue our talks in four days’ time.”

She gave Euron no chance to argue by turning her back and walking away. Tywin could have simply stared the cocky man into submission, but Sansa did not have that power. She looped her arm through Jaime’s and headed back through the gate. It would look to Euron that the strong knight was supporting his delicate lady of a goodmother, when in fact his weight immediately bore down on her.

As soon as they were through the gate Jaime lowered himself to the ground, bracing against the stone wall. He closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath. Though it was cold outside, by King’s Landing standards, sweat rolled down his face and neck and Sansa dabbed him with her handkerchief. She would only let him rest here a moment – he needed to be in bed. After a minute Jaime opened his eyes but only halfway. His limbs looked equally heavy, as if he couldn’t lift them even if his life depended on it. He looked up at Sansa, “Is this what women feel like after they give birth?”

She chuckled, “Well I hope it’s not what we _look_ like… you look like shit, Ser Jaime.”

He snorted, “My father is rubbing off on you if that’s the kind of sympathy you offer to a dying a man.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Don’t be so dramatic, Jaime, you’re not dying.”

Jaime’s eyes opened fully, “Now you _really_ sound like my father.”

She couldn’t help but smile, imagining Tywin saying the same words, though from him they would be much more biting.

“Come on, time to get up and walk, I have business that needs attending.”

As Jaime struggled to his feet with the help of a guard, his face became solemn, “If they attack Sansa…” he shook his head, “We need to talk about what we’re going to do.”

Sansa nodded, “And we will, after you rest. Euron may be a bit… _eccentric_ … but I don’t think he is stupid. He came here to trade… he wants Daenerys dead but knows she is worth a fortune. He will give us the four days. No doubt he has scouts to the north and south, watching for approaching ships… he has every reason for comfort.”

Jaime nodded then accepted the guard’s help to get back to his shared room with Tyrion.

“Where to, my lady?” Ser Andre asked as Sansa began walking to the stables, already devising her plan.

“The Great Sept.”

Andre literally stopped her with a mailed hand on her elbow, “There is nothing more you can do for the ill, my lady,” he spoke sternly but not unkindly.

“I know, but there is something the ill can do for me…”

\---------------------------------

“As promised, Lord Greyjoy… As I said earlier, I wish it were more.”

Euron eyed her suspiciously before walking along the rows of crates and barrels ready to be loaded into his sixty rowboats. He spoke as he walked in the casual strut that Sansa already knew was typical of him, “Where’s the Kingslayer? Preparing for battle?”

“You show up unexpectedly with sixty warships. Would you expect us not to prepare?”

“What happened to seeking an alliance?” he grinned.

“Nothing has changed; I’d rather count you among my allies than my enemies, but I rarely get what I want in life, so I always prepare for the alternative.” Sansa looked up to the pinkish-orange sky, pondering how the world’s beauty never dimmed even as its inhabitants were suffering and dying.

Euron tsked, “A woman so beautiful not getting everything she wants? I shall need to have a talk with your husband… if he returns, that is.”

“My husband will return.”

“A northern battle during winter? You are over-confident, lady lion.”

Sansa fought the sickening dread that built up in her belly, “I am just confident enough, Lord Greyjoy.”

“Even so, if the Old Lion doesn’t make it back, you let me know if you get lonely,” Euron grinned impishly while tossing an apple up and down with his right hand.

Sansa rolled her eyes while Andre – now standing beside her – stiffened. “If you’re trying to woo me, Lord Greyjoy, you can start my bringing me your nephew’s head.”

The apple hit the sand when Euron spun around to look at her. Sansa had spent the afternoon busy with her tasks but never did Euron leave her thoughts. She needed to know what kind of man he was – other than the obvious – so she could win his respect. She knew he had wanted to align with the Dragon Queen, perhaps even marry her, which meant he liked women who were not just beautiful but fierce. But the Dragon Queen wasn’t enough of a conqueror for his taste. She did want to conquer but wanted to do it with less bloodshed than Euron would likely crave. Ultimately, however, no matter how tempting an alliance with Daenerys may be, he was covetous of her dragons, and afraid of all that power being in her hands alone.

Euron walked toward her slowly, “Who are you?”

“As I’ve already told you, I am Sansa Lannister, Lady of Casterly Rock, wife of Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand to King Tommen Baratheon.”

“Who _were_ you, then?”

Sansa’s stomach fluttered, though she knew not why, “I _was_ Sansa Stark, firstborn daughter of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell.”

“My nephew’s _family…_ ” Euron sneered.

“Indeed, I thought that was the case, until Theon betrayed one brother and murdered two others.”

“Aye, only took him more than a decade to finally grow some balls.”

Sansa felt her hackles rise, “My family was nothing but kind to him. He was raised as if one of my siblings,” it was suddenly impossible to keep the resentment out of her voice.

“And kindness is a weakness.”

Sansa gestured to the rows of provisions still waiting to be accepted, “And yet I am being kind to you. Do you think me weak?”

Euron snorted, “I think you’re playing at being kind, girl, because you’re afraid to do what you really want to do.”

“And what is that?”

“Kill me,” he said bluntly.

Sansa lifted a brow defiantly, “The thought has crossed my mind.”

Euron smiled then, an almost genuine, warm, smile, “But you’re not sure you can… despite all your posturing, I can smell your fear…” Euron leaned forward, making an exaggerated sniff in her direction. Slowly he leaned even closer so he could whisper where only she would hear, “…and your cunt.”

Without thinking Sansa slapped him across his left cheek, so hard that her palm stung. Ser Andre drew his sword as did the other guards, following their commander’s example, but Euron only threw his head back and laughed.

This time Sansa stepped forward, a fool’s courage propelling her feet, “You have a fleet you can’t sail into our bay unless you wish to be incinerated with Wildfire. You have dragons that won’t listen to any command but one delivered by their _mother_ – who looks rather upset to have been kidnapped! You came here because you thought you could intimidate us while the lions were away, but you made a mistake. It is the lioness who protects her pride by day, and hunts by night. The lioness never rests while there are threats nearby. And when she kills the hyenas circling her den, she doesn’t shed a tear for them… nor will I lose a moment of sleep after seeing every one of you decrepit squids at the bottom of the ocean, food for the fish.”

She picked up the apple that still laid near Euron’s feet, brushed the sand off on her cloak, and took a bite before flinging the rest at him, “It’s not poisoned.”

For the second time this day she left him no chance to have the last word when she marched for the gate without another glance.

\---------------------------------------

“You did _what?”_ Tyrion coughed.

Sansa looked around at their odd war council, rubbing her aching temples. Lady Genna insisted on being present once she was alerted to the threat of the Ironborn fleet. The other members included Lord Mace, Ser Andre, a bedridden Jaime and Tyrion, and Sansa herself. Everyone else in the capital was either sick, nursing the sick, or working feverishly to prepare for a possible Ironborn attack. This included Ser Bryen Banefort, acting Commander of the Lannister and Crown Armies during Jaime’s respite.

Sansa repeated the theory Maesters Qyburn and Lantell believed – that objects, including food and water, could transmit disease.

“So you gave fruit to the Ironborn that had been lovingly packaged by the ill at the Great Sept?” Tyrion asked, eyebrows raised.

Sansa nodded, feeling her cheeks blush. Beside her Ser Andre was smirking devilishly. “Oh fine, tell them!” Sansa snapped at him. He, like Sandor, had come to know her too well to be hurt or insulted by her occasional outbursts or breaches of etiquette.

“My lady also had the sick spit in all the water barrels. Lined up to take a turn like soldiers at the soup line.” As Ser Andre spoke, Sansa hid her eyes behind her hands, mortified.

Genna and Tyrion sat in shock for a moment before bursting out in laughter. Genna’s voluptuous flesh jiggled, and Tyrion fell into a coughing fit. Tyrion looked a little better than he had the day before but was still quite unwell. Jaime seemed to have relapsed from over-exerting himself earlier and was more subdued than the others.

Lord Mace shook his head, “It was quite a waste of food.”

“Only if it doesn’t work,” Sansa countered. _Please work!_

Fun now over, it was time to set everyone to task. Sansa straightened in her chair, “Ser Bryen will update us first thing in the morning as to the state of the city’s defenses given our depleted numbers. Until then, I want everyone to consider the options. Are we willing to trade for this self-proclaimed Targaryen Queen who seeks to take what belongs to Tommen and Margaery?” she cast her eyes at Lord Mace, “And if so, what will we offer in return? And what will we do about the dragons? One thing is certain – we cannot let Euron simply sail away with three dragons and a perfectly-intact fleet, but it may be weeks before any naval reinforcements arrive here…” She watched everyone nod in agreement.

“…Today has been exhausting for all of us, but I want us to come together tomorrow morning, consider all the options, and decide on our plan of action – one plan in the event Euron’s men remain hale, another for if they take ill. If they do take ill, we can safely assume about half of their men will be affected, given the close quarters on a ship, but how many will succumb would be anyone’s guess. My thinking was to buy us time, not to wipe them out.”

Everyone nodded their agreement, but when they began to depart Tyrion asked Sansa to remain behind.

“You should rest, Tyrion, we can speak on the morrow.”

“I’d rather say this just amongst us Lannisters,” he smiled weakly after the others had left.

“Very well,” Sansa sighed as she sat heavily in her chair.

“My brother has told me of Jon Snow’s warning… about the forces amassing in the far north.”

Sansa rubbed her brow, “Wights… dragons… I have seen the latter with my own eyes, but not the former—”

“Indeed, but you may forget I spent months with your brother, before the war. While you were traveling south to the capital, learning just how cruel, short-sighted, and deceitful my nephew is… I was traveling north to the Wall, learning just how brave, honorable, and honest to a fault your brother is…”

“You believe him?”

“I believe he has no motive to lie, and even less aptitude for deceit. Your brother couldn’t bluff in a friendly game of cards, I doubt he could weave an elaborate tale in front of not just every high lord of the north, but my very skeptical father.”

“The situation in the north is for your father to judge; we have more pressing concerns.”

“And yet his concerns and ours are more related than you may think, Sansa.”

Sansa could only stare, failing to connect the dots.

Tywin took several sips of water and caught his breath, already exhausted by the effort of speaking, “Wights are killed by fire. Dragons breathe fire.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open and stayed so for long seconds before she dropped her head and laughed, “You think we can somehow capture and tame the beasts? I thought they only served those with Targaryen blood.”

“So it is said, though who knows for sure? But as it happens Euron has brought someone with Targaryen blood into our reach.”

This time it was Jaime who chuckled, “If you think father will let her not jut live but let her ride her dragons into battle, even against this unprecedented threat, you have become delirious with fever.”

“Father is not here.”

“The risk is too great, Tyrion,” Sansa shook her head.

“Her army is useless to her unless she obtains a fleet large enough to transport it across the Narrow Sea. If we can deal with this Euron Greyjoy—”

“Deal with him _how_? He won’t enter the bay because I threatened him with Wildfire – a bluff from a Stark, I hope you’re proud – but as long as he is out of the bay we cannot get to him, even if we had at our disposal a fleet that could take his on. And yet we must hope he does not sail into the bay to attack - I know our castle defenses are strong, but we are severely undermanned, they can overrun us and Euron can claim the bloody throne… oh, and _still_ have _three dragons_!”

Tyrion ignored her protests, exhaling impatiently, “ _As I was saying_ , if we can deal with this Euron Greyjoy, Daenerys and her dragons will be entirely at our mercy.”

Jaime coughed, “Hypothetically yes, until she rallies another army. You forget there are plenty in Westeros who bear no love for either Baratheon or Lannister. There are many who believe Tommen’s claim is… _questionable…_ who would support Daenerys’ claim to the Iron Throne. As Sansa said, the risk is too great.”

“The risk _is_ great, but so is the risk of hastily disposing of three dragons and the woman who may be the only living person who can command them.”

“Euron will not hand the dragons over for all the gold beneath Casterly Rock,” Sansa stated firmly, “We cannot beat him into submission when he can simply sail away to safety at any point!”

“Indeed not, goodmother, which is why we need to use _every_ weapon at our disposal… including the not insignificant cunning of the three people in this room.”

Sansa peered at him, unable to keep the corners of her mouth from curving, “You sound like a man with a plan…”

Tyrion teetered his hand, "The beginnings of one..."

…

After speaking with Tyrion and Jaime for the better part of two hours, Sansa’s bed called to her, but she knew her sleep would be restless if she didn’t see to one more task…

Sansa ignored the protests of her feet as she ascended the stairs to the guards’ floor in the tower of the hand. When she quietly pushed open the door, she was surprised to find Shireen Baratheon sitting in a chair, reading aloud. Shireen paused her words to turn and smile at Sansa, “My Lady Lannister, good evening.”

“Lady Shireen, you should not be in here. If you were to fall ill…”

“I suspect I will not, my lady. I was at the orphanage with you, and I’ve visited my cousin Tommen several times.”

Sansa’s eyes moved to the bed, where Sandor slept under layers of wool and fur. Sansa pulled over another chair and practically collapsed into it.

“The maester was here, about an hour ago. Your man awoke long enough to drink some of the maester’s fever tea. He’s a funny man,” Shireen smiled shyly.

“Sandor, or the maester?”

Shireen giggled, “Both, I suppose, though in different ways. I meant the maester.”

“Yes, I suppose he is a _funny_ man. Why are you here, Shireen?”

The younger girl shrugged, “I knew you were busy or else you’d have checked on him yourself… besides, I like him. He reminds me of Ser Davos.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed. She had met and talked to Ser Davos. Where Sandor was tall, broad, and strong, Ser Davos was of average height and build and showing his age. Where Sandor was crude and harsh, Ser Davos was warm and soft-spoken.

Shireen seemed to read her mind, “They both speak honestly, though don’t speak more than necessary. And they both have good hearts, even if not everyone can see it. Ser Davos was always protective of me, even when it meant betraying his oaths to my father. I suspect your man is the same, toward you.”

Sansa smiled, “Your assessment is correct. Sandor is one of the few people who protected me when I was little older than you, even when it went against the boy king he was sworn to protect.”

“So what has been said about King Joffrey is true? He was a cruel king?”

Sansa nodded, “I will not deny it. I will keep no secrets for the dead. But King Tommen is not his brother; he is kind-hearted, just like you.”

Shireen smiled, “I think you are right, my lady.”

“Please, call me Sansa when we are alone. What were you reading, just now?”

Sandor’s cough startled both women, but he remained asleep. Shireen continued, “It is a book about dragons. I know most of it already, but I thought it would be good to refresh my memory.”

Sansa stifled a yawn, “Anything of note I should know?”

“Well, I’ve been focused on reading about the famed dragons and their dragonriders. They are said to have a bond stronger than between mother and child, or husband and wife. When a dragon dies, its rider mourns deeply. And when a rider dies, its dragon does the same.”

“Is there only one rider for every dragon, and vice versa?”

“They are bonded pairs, but when a rider falls, its dragon will eventually find another rider. Often a close relative of the rider.”

“What of dragons without riders? Daenerys can only ride one at a time, yet she has three.”

“One will no doubt be bonded to her. The others will follow her command, but they will be waiting for their own riders. But if she’s the last Targaryen, then I suppose they will never have riders, until she births children, that is.”

“I have heard she is barren, though I’m not sure this is true.”

“If it is, then I rather pity two of her dragons.”

“Hmpf,” Sansa snorted, “Pitying a dragon. That’s new.”

“Not truly, Sansa. It’s no different than pitying someone who never had a great love,” Shireen’s eyes seemed to glisten.

“Are you imagining someone in particular?” Sansa asked softly.

Shireen blushed again, “I’m not naïve; I hear what is said about my parents. That my father has never loved her, nor she him. That he stays with her out of duty, when many have told him to find a new wife – one who can bear him sons… perhaps one he would love.”

Sansa reached across to take Shireen’s hand, “My mother and father loved each other very much. She gave him three sons and two daughters. Now they are both gone, as are all of their sons. They might as well have only had one daughter… and despite their love they both made choices that tore them apart.”

Shireen’s eyes widened, “What of your sister?”

“Arya is her name. She fled King’s Landing after my father’s execution. She hasn’t been seen or heard of since. I hope she is alive somewhere, surviving… but I do not hold out hope.”

Shireen’s voice was barely above a whisper, “What do you suppose will become of my father?”

Sansa had no energy for lies, “If he surrenders, he will be treated mercifully.”

Shireen nodded, though tears welled in her eyes, “A merciful death, you mean?”

Sansa sighed, “Most likely. Or perhaps he will be allowed to take the black. I’m sorry, Shireen. I have lost a father, too.”

Shireen’s normally composed countenance broke, and the young girl behind it was revealed, “It’s all Lady Melisandre’s fault, and my father doesn’t see it. He should have given up his pursuit of the crown after the Battle of the Blackwater. If he had surrendered, perhaps he’d have been allowed to return to Storm’s End. Melisandre convinced him he was destined for the throne.”

“And you do not believe he is?”

“I don’t _care_ whether he is; I’d rather have my father, yet he will die… and for nothing more than his pride! I don’t care about bloodlines and inheritance. The King on the throne should be a kind and just ruler, no matter who sired him. My father is a just man, but not a kind man… I know that’s why people followed my uncle Renly even though my father is the elder.”

“A king must be more than kind and just. A king must be respected and feared. A king must be able to make difficult choices. If he cannot, then he must surround himself with those who can. But he must be wise enough to know where their loyalties truly lay.”

Shireen smiled through her tears, “You’re very wise, Sansa. How did you come to be so?”

Sleepiness was making Sansa’s tongue loose, “Constant pain and betrayal.” She turned to look squarely at Shireen, “It’s late.”

The women rose in unison. Shireen looked to Sandor, “I’ll leave you to say goodnight to your man.”

Standing alone in the room Sansa allowed herself to study him thoroughly. His breathing sounded clear, the cold had not yet settled in his lungs, but his hair was matted with sweat, the muscles in his face taut even in his sleep state. Her hand to his forehead proved his fever had not fully abated, though whatever the master gave him helped him sleep, at least.

With a sigh she dipped some clean linen into the cool water of the wash basin, then gently slid the damp fabric over his neck and face. Wiping the hair away from his face she could see the extent of his scarring unobstructed. It truly was abhorrent, and yet she could summon no fear, no disgust. His scars were just _part_ of him, like his steel grey eyes or her red hair.

She ran the cool rag over his arms which lay above the covers. They were dark tan, hairy, and muscled. His hands were so large they almost looked inhuman, yet when she placed her hand in the hollow of his, there was no doubt it belonged to a man. A man just as vulnerable as anyone, perhaps not in a fight or battle, but vulnerable to illness… vulnerable to suffering and pain and heartache.

The strange desire she now felt to join him in bed and pull him into her embrace was not sexual, though he had stirred such feelings in her before. She had an odd notion that her presence would give him a reason to hold on, to get better. What other cause did a man like Sandor Clegane have to rally himself around? But propriety kept Lady Lannister from climbing into his sick bed. Instead she pulled over the chair and rejoined her hand to his. Her voice was weak and tired, but she sang to him. And then she sang again. And again. She sang until she found herself nodding off in the middle of a song, and only then did she say a silent prayer to The Mother, and to her own mother. Then to The Father, and to her own father. She prayed for Sandor Clegane’s body and soul. And Tywin Lannister’s. And Jon Snow’s. And Tommen’s, Jaime’s and Tyrion’s. She didn’t ask for strength or health for herself, but for her child.

When her eyes could barely stay open, she made a plea to Sandor himself, whispering against the burnt shell of his ear, “Please don’t leave me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I should make a note, though anyone reading to this point will have already noticed thus far. I don't follow canon to a T, though I do to some extent (e.g. Lord Mathis is the one holding Storm's End during the war). The thing I don't follow too closely is timeline, a) because it would be a full-time job, and b) because there isn't a really accurate timeline for ASOIAF or GOT. So should Dany's dragons be bigger or smaller than they are at this point - months after the Red Wedding. Maybe, if anything, smaller, since presumably such large creatures would take years or even decades to mature (think elephants - 20-25 years to reach full size).   
> Similarly, the timing of what's going on at the Wall in relation to events in King's Landing.   
> So, hopefully you all accept that I make the timeline fit my story. Plain and simple. 
> 
> Also, I'd like to comment on the Sandor scene at the end, in case any die-hard TySan fans found it to be an act of infidelity even if it wasn't sexual. Sandor was Sansa's first/only 'friend' in KL for a long time, and he continues to be a symbol of security to her - that he would always save her, and put her safety before anything else. Though she has come to develop romantic feelings for Tywin, I don't intend to ever sever the bond she has with Sandor because I think both of them need it - she needs to know there is one person who will protect and care for her, and not simply because of her claim or her beauty, and he needs to know there is one person who accepts him as he is, who sees past the scars and the temper and harsh words.


	47. Wasteful

**Jeran**

Jeran’s fever finally broke for good a sennight after falling ill; he only knew this because he happened to awaken when Qyburn was checking on him.

Jeran struggled to sit up, his back and arms weary from disuse. He didn’t trust this Qyburn fellow – he had a reputation for letting nothing stop his pursuit of medical knowledge. He had been expelled from the citadel for inhumane experimentation on his subjects. But Jeran couldn’t question the man’s competence, and begrudgingly guessed that many who survived this plague would have him to thank, directly or indirectly.

“Who?” Jeran asked while Qyburn poured him a glass of water.

“The latest cases of note are Lady Olenna Tyrell and Sandor Clegane, the Hound, the former faring worse than the latter, not surprisingly. Also two of Lady Margaery’s cousins.”

“Lady Lannister?”

Qyburn cocked his head, “Don’t you mean to ask about King Tommen?”

Jeran felt his cheeks heat, “Lady Lannister is pregnant, and more delicate.”

A faint smile appeared on Qyburn’s lips, “Pregnant? Yes. Delicate? Hardly… and she is well, to answer your question.”

“So what of the others?”

“Ser Jaime is on the mend. Lord Tyrion has no more fever, but a lingering cough that has me concerned; it isn’t worsening, but isn’t easing, either. King Tommen and Lady Margaery are in similar states – in no immediate danger, but the accumulation of fluid in their lungs concerns me, especially with each day being colder than the last.”

“Long-term effects, you think?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ve had little time to study the affected population, but in my rounds, I spoke to some who had the sickness early… Many made a full recovery, but many others still have a pesky cough, even a fortnight after their fever broke.”

“Perhaps a matter of how strong and clear their lungs were to begin with… weak lungs, or heart, for that matter, often aren’t discovered until an illness exacerbates the issue.”

“Indeed,” Qyburn nodded.

Jeran sat back and sipped his water, processing everything Qyburn had told him. He was glad to hear that Lady Lannister was not ill… if anything happened to her or her child, he’d be fed to the lions.

“Any other news? From the north, perhaps?”

“Lord Tywin’s host arrived at Winterfell a few days ago, the battle was imminent. And around the same time sixty Ironborn warships made anchor just beyond Blackwater Bay. Lady Lannister and Ser Jaime have been treating with them,” Qyburn smiled wistfully even as Jeran choked on his water.

“Will the city be under siege?!”

“I do not believe so… if you’re feeling up to it, look to the east tonight.”

**Sansa**

“You think me a fool?” Euron snarled so close that Sansa could smell his rancid breath.

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Far from it, Lord Greyjoy. Yet I fail to see how you can accuse me of poisoning your men. Do you think there exists enough poison in the entire realm to taint two hundred crates of fruit and three hundred barrels of water?”

“You poisoned only some crates, then!”

“Yet you say men on _all_ of your ships are afflicted with this illness. How could I know which crates you’d deliver to which ships? Moreover, what good would it do me to poison only a small percentage of your men?! Why would I risk that when what I hope to gain from you is an alliance?”

Ser Jaime snorted, “And what kind of poison takes days to affect a person? You said the first signs of illness began last night, and we gave you the provisions four days ago!”

“Not poison then, some witch’s curse!”

“ _Now_ you think I’m a witch?”

“You look like one with your red hair! They say Stannis Baratheon has a Red Witch by his side.”

“I take it back, Lord Greyjoy,” Sansa crossed her arms over her chest, “I _do_ think you’re a fool.”

There was no sign of the cocky, almost jovial Ironborn captain as he inched closer to Sansa, “We’ll see who’s a fool when I scale your walls. See how well your one-handed knight protects you from my men!”

“Yes, we will see. That would _prove_ you’re a fool. Do what you will, Lord Greyjoy. I had hoped to find a common cause, but I think now it would be much easier to simply kill you. Good day,” she turned and walked toward the gate along with her companions when Euron called out to her.

Sansa had to contain her smile when she turned back around, eyebrow arched inquisitively. Euron’s jaw was clenched tight enough to break teeth. Sansa waited patiently for him to continue.

“You swear on your _honor_ as a Stark that you did not poison my men?”

“I swear it on my honor as a Stark. I swear it as Ned Stark’s daughter. I swear it on the souls of all those I’ve lost – my mother, father, brothers…” Sansa placed a hand on her belly, “I swear it on my unborn child.” Euron’s eyes followed her hand, betraying his surprise.

Qyburn, who was hunched more than normal, playing the part of the harmless old maester, spoke up, “Please, Lady Lannister, Lord Greyjoy, I believe I have an explanation.”

Sansa nodded in his direction, “Proceed, Maester Qyburn.”

“Thank you,” he bowed feebly, “With the changing of the season, we’ve seen many with colds and fever of late. It is not uncommon. I believe your men may be similarly afflicted. Sailing from the warmth of Essos to the cold of Westeros has no doubt taken a toll on your men. I believe with rest and nourishment they will recover in time.”

Euron eyed the maester suspiciously before turning back to Sansa, “Have you thought about the price you’re willing to pay for the Dragon Queen?”

“We have,” Sansa handed him a piece of parchment, watching his eyes widen as he read.

“So you Lannisters really _do_ shit gold,” he mumbled toward Jaime.

“War is costly, Lord Greyjoy. And so long as Daenerys Targaryen remains committed to taking the throne from my grandson, we will live under constant threat of war.”

Euron’s eye narrowed, “You want one of my dragons?”

“The gold we offer is for one Targaryen and one dragon, yes. You must understand this is an insurance policy. My King will never allow one person to command all three beasts, it is simply too risky. However, we will accept the smallest one.”

Euron shook his head, “I captured the bitch and her dragons, and it wasn’t easy… if you think I’m parting with one of them… and giving it to my enemy…”

Sansa shook her head, “I don’t wish to be your enemy.” With a sigh, she continued, “I understand your hesitance to part with such a hard-earned prize. Perhaps I am wrong to offer gold… perhaps these creatures truly are priceless to you, so I must find something priceless to trade instead.”

Euron’s lips curved into a smile, no doubt inferring something that wasn’t being offered, “What do you have in mind, lady lion?”

“An alliance, sealed through marriage.”

“Whose marriage?” he grinned predatorially.

“My sister, who is soon to be widowed, if she hasn’t already been. Her next lord husband will be Warden of the North.”

“Does she look like you?”

Sansa blushed, “She has the northern look. Dark hair and eyes… good with a blade and bow – something I’m sure you can appreciate.”

Euron shook his head – Sansa was not surprised, “Then how about Shireen Baratheon, heir to the Stormlands, and next in line for the Iron Throne after Tommen and Myrcella Baratheon, should King Tommen perish before producing heirs.”

At that his eyebrow arched, no doubt contemplating ways to kill Tommen and Myrcella.

“Perhaps I’ll take both women you offer – a rock wife and a salt wife.”

Sansa sneered, “You will have your choice – one but not both. We would also be willing to formally acknowledge the Iron Islands as an independent kingdom – you act like one anyway – so long as you honor the terms of a peace accord and sail to the Crown’s aid if called upon.”

“You’ve given me much to think on.”

“Of course. Shall we meet here tomorrow, midday?”

Euron nodded, “Aye, I enjoy seeing your copper hair in the bright sun. Like a flame I can touch without burning my fingers.”

“No, but you’ll lose your fingers if you dare,” Ser Andre spoke for the first time in their meeting.

Euron held his hands up in supplication. Sansa ignored his advances, “We are to be allies this time tomorrow, I sincerely hope. Within a few hours I can collect our healers and maesters – send one for every ship… I will lend you them until nightfall; they have herbs that can be brewed to a tea to help with fever.”

Euron’s snarl returned, “Another poison?”

“This accusation is tiresome, Lord Greyjoy. My husband wants your loyalty… your fleet. He would flog me if I did anything to jeopardize such an alliance only to kill a few of your men… If you don’t believe me, then ask the healers to drink some of their own brew.”

“Very well,” Euron relented, as if he was doing her a favor, “A rowboat from each ship will be here in two hours to collect your maesters, and they will be returned at dusk.”

“Returned unharmed and on time,” Sansa spoke firmly.

Euron raised his hands again, smiling mischievously, “On my honor.”

For the first time, Sansa shared a laugh with Euron Greyjoy.

**Sandor**

Sandor’s fever had broken this morning, yet his limbs still felt as if they were filled with lead. Still, it was enough just to be awake and safe from the fever dreams which had haunted him. Dreams of his brother holding his face in the flames, dreams of his sister praying at his bedside and asking him not to leave her, dreams of the Battle of the Blackwater, when wildfire tinted the very air and sky a ghostly green. And of course, dreams of the little bird – of her hovering over him singing on the night of the battle when in reality it had been him hovering over her.

It had to be near supper time by the time he could get his cramped legs to cooperate. It must have taken him nearly an hour to dress and don his light armor, and by the time he was done he was ready to collapse back in bed, but he refused to go another minute without knowing what was going on. He heard no sounds of battle. In fact, he heard very little sound at all…

He walked out into the hall, knocking on each door until a young Lannister guard opened.

“Where is Lady Lannister?” Sandor rasped, his voice sounding rusty.

“Eastern battlements, Ser.”

“Not a ser. Are we at war?”

“I’m not certain.”

Sandor blinked, “Is Ser Andre with her?”

“Yes, ser… I mean, yes, Hound.”

Sandor grunted and turned to leave. It took longer than usual to descend the steps, and his entire body was wet with sweat by the time he made his way across the courtyard and to the eastern battlements. It was easy enough to spot Sansa’s red hair among a sea of archers and soldiers.

As if sensing his approach she turned, eyes first going wide then narrowing in disapproval, “You shouldn’t be out of bed!”

“I’m fine, don’t fret over me. Why are we all standing here staring at the bay?”

“We’re staring at the Ironborn ships beyond the bay, or in their direction, at least.”

“Talks didn’t go well?”

“The talks went well. But if we give them any more time to realize how weak we are right now, they won’t be interested in talking, just sacking.”

“Soo… you’re going to stand here until they attack?”

“No… we’re standing here to see if our plan works.”

It was only then that Sandor realized she was wringing her hands. He was about to ask what the ‘plan’ was when Ser Jaime appeared, nodding briefly at Sandor before inclining his head toward Sansa, “We’re ready, my lady.”

Sansa bit her bottom lip, “Do be careful, please. Don’t take any unnecessary risk…”

Jaime smiled his cocky grin, “Where’s the fun in that?”

She shook her head, “If this works, I will laugh at your jokes, but not before.”

Jaime’s grin widened, “Well that certainly is incentive enough.” With a slight bow he was off to his duty - whatever it may be. Sandor only watched Sansa as she stared out over the bay, trying to hide her fear.

After some minutes passed, she jumped in excitement, “They’re returning!” Sandor followed the path of her eyes and noticed dozens of rowboats making their way toward the shore. Several minutes later they were headed back out, having dropped off one passenger from each boat.

“What the fuck is going on?” Sandor demanded, but once again he’d not get his answer as the creepy maester approached.

“It’s done, Lady Lannister.”

“Thank you, Maester Qyburn. Now we just wait?”

He nodded respectfully, “Now we just wait. If it works, it shouldn’t be long…”

“What shouldn’t be long?” Sandor spoke again.

“Oh!” Sansa looked at him as if she’d forgotten about his presence, “I think, perhaps, you won’t wish to be here.”

He only stared at her in response.

Sansa grimaced, “I think it may bring back unpleasant memories.”

“Of what?”

“The Battle of—” her words were cut off by the sound of an explosion in the distance. Sandor looked out to sea and saw green flames licking up from what he assumed was one of the Ironborn warships. 

He turned back to Sansa, who looked pained. She seemed to be steeling herself to speak again when another explosion was heard.

And then another…

And another…

And so it went for another hour or so. Sometimes two or three ships would go up in flame simultaneously, then there would be a few minutes of silence

Of course the Ironborn started to see what was happening and abandoned ship, some in rowboats, some just jumped into the water. Sandor could see this through the periscope he, Sansa, and Andre passed back and forth, since the burning ships illuminated the night. Sandor noted the Crown and Lannister and Tyrell soldiers on the beach, there to pick off any men who made it to shore. Of course, those who did would be exhausted from swimming or rowing, but desperate men were dangerous men.

“Right, I should go down through the Mud Gate.”

“Absolutely not!” Sansa scolded, “You’ve just woken from a serious illness. You are weak.”

“You need every man you can get!”

“Ser Jaime is out with our fleet to take care of them. Those that make it to shore will be dealt with by our archers and soldiers. Many of them will be sick and weak.”

“Oh, so you sent sick archers and soldiers out but won’t send me out?”

“It is not _our_ men that are sick… it is the Ironborn. I sent the fever to them through tainted food and water.”

Sandor rubbed his forehead which was still aching, “You gave them tainted food and water?”

“Yes; I know it was wasteful, but at the time I didn’t know Lord Tyrion had any wildfire left. I needed to distract and delay them. Though it worked out well, as it gave us the pretext to send healers onto their vessels.”

Sandor shook his head, certain none of this made sense, “Healers?”

“Not truly healers, most were servants or guards. In each of their satchels they had ordinary tea which we told Lord Euron was fever tea. They had other fake herbs and tinctures and went on the ship under pretext of seeing to the most ill men, and the commanders, as a sign of our good intentions.” At the last words Sansa looked down at her hands. “Many of the _healers_ also had a small earthenware jar filled with wildfire. Maester Qyburn educated me on its combustibility properties. It isn’t just a flame that can start it off. It will combust on its own when it reaches a certain temperature. Each healer was instructed to leave his jar under a lit brazier in one of the cabins on the ship. It looks like the healers were successful, and Maester Qyburn was correct.”

“You said Lord Lannister wanted an alliance with the Ironborn, wanted their fleet. You’ve just destroyed it because you were afraid they _might_ attack, and we _might_ be defeated?”

Sansa looked hurt by his words, “Nearly half our army is sick or recovering from being sick… or _will_ be sick yet! Euron already asked why the docks were so quiet. I made up an excuse but eventually he would have realized something was amiss. He could have already sent scouts by land from north or south of the city and was merely waiting for their reports. Besides, I didn’t destroy _all_ of his fleet. We figured if enough ships exploded the others will abandon out of fear, that’s why Ser Jaime is out with our own small fleet to deal with them, and Lord Mathis from Storm’s End should be here with his small fleet before the dawn, based on the message we received by raven two days ago.”

Sandor’s brain was too foggy to make sense of everything, and she seemed to take his silence as disapproval as she got that narrow-eyed, pursed-lip expression that meant she was feeling defensive. She lowered her voice and leaned close, “I couldn’t let him leave with three dragons and the last Targaryen. He was willing to sell the latter but not the former!”

Sandor blinked at her, “Dragons?”

Her cheeks blushed, “Oh… I forgot you fell ill before my first meeting with Euron. Eh, yes. He has dragons. Three. Not yet full grown. Chained to one of the ships.”

A hundred thoughts and questions fought for attention, like, _How did Euron get ahold of the dragons?_ _How are you going to get the dragons off the ship?_ _What are you doing to do with the Targaryen bitch?_

But in the end Sandor just turned around and headed back to his quarters. He was still exhausted and hoped some wine would help him fall asleep quickly and ward off dreams of wildfire and dragonfire. Better yet, perhaps he’d wake and find this all was just another fever dream.


	48. Decisions

**Tywin**

Men practically dove into the snow to get out of Tywin’s way as he stomped through the courtyard with no destination in mind. He had been at the maester’s turret at Winterfell, about to pen a note to his wife about their victory over the Boltons. With the Karstarks joining the Boltons it was more of a challenge than anticipated, however just as the Boltons tried to use the element of surprise in their favor, so too did Tywin – sending Jon Snow with a squadron of northern soldiers to lay siege to the western wall after the battle had begun.

Tomorrow they were to depart for the Wall after having given the men a fortnight to recover at Winterfell. Only, after a Lannister messenger from the Dreadfort arrived, the only direction he wanted to go was south.

Tywin tried to slow the hammering of his heart – when was the last time he felt so helpless? He clutched the scroll so tightly his forearm shook. Knowing the travel time of the messenger and the raven, he could estimate that over a fortnight ago, sixty Ironborn warships anchored down just beyond the Blackwater Bay. There were no other details in the hastily written scroll from his wife.

Without realizing his destination he made his way to the family keep and knocked on what he knew to be Jon Snow’s door.

“Enter,” a voice answered.

Jon rose upon seeing his visitor, but Tywin bid him to sit before handing him the scroll. It took Jon’s eyes only a few seconds to read it – likely twice – before he looked back at Tywin, “Can King’s Landing withstand such an attack?”

“We’ve only a few warships, most having been destroyed in the war, and Kevan taking a good portion of the remainder when he came north.”

“The walls? Weaponry?”

“It is not an easy target; the Ironborn will lose many men if they mean to overrun the castle… I don’t know how many they have…”

“Sixty ships… how many can each hold?”

“The Ironborn ships are large. I’d say 600 men at maximum capacity.”

“So as many as 36,000?” Jon ran his fingers through his curly hair.

“I doubt it’s that many…”

“A good portion of your army is _here_ , is it not? Here and at the Dreadfort… do they have enough men to defend the city?”

“Yes,” Tywin answered honestly.

“Yet I see fear in your eyes,” Jon spoke as if it was an accusation.

“Any man who doesn’t fear such an attack is a fool, or insane. But my son Jaime is there, he knows battle better than anyone. Tyrion is there, he held off Stannis’ attack in the past. The Hound, many of the other soldiers and guards… they lived through the Battle of the Blackwater.”

“Why would the Ironborn attack? Even if they managed to take the throne, they couldn’t hold it against you and all your allies, could they?”

“Highly unlikely.”

“Would they go there for any other reason?”

“They certainly don’t need sixty warships for a diplomatic meeting.”

“What will you do?”

“The messenger is awaiting my response to bring back to Kevan at the Dreadfort. I am going to tell him to leave enough men to hold the castle and send the rest back to King’s Landing.”

“Will you not go with them, Lord Lannister? Your sons, your wife, your grandson…”

Tywin straightened his doublet, “I must be here to treat with Stannis’ men. There is no one to whom I would delegate this.”

“But my sister!”

“What about your sister?”

“She’s the last Stark… she’s your wife… she’s pregnant. You will abandon her to the Ironborn?”

Tywin’s lip curled, “She is in the third most secure castle in the entire realm after the Eyrie and Casterly Rock. Moreover, if the Ironborn came to attack, then it has already happened and there is nothing I can do.”

Jon snorted, “Then why send your brother and his fleet back?”

“We don’t need them, anyway. We have more than enough men to deal with Stannis… not to mention we now hold Winterfell and the Dreadfort. He would be a fool to think he can possibly come away victorious.”

“Once we leave for the Wall, we will have no way of contacting King’s Landing until we gain entry at Castle Black. What if they need us?”

The temptation to turn immediately for the capital was great; Jon’s insistence did not make it any easier.

 _Let Stannis spend the winter hunkered down at Castle Black… leave enough men that he cannot take Winterfell or the Dreadfort. Deal with him come spring…_ The voice in his head was just as persistent as Jon Snow, but another voice – Sansa’s voice – told him not to leave anything to chance. The northerners had sided with Tywin quickly enough when it meant ousting the Boltons; would they just as quickly side with Stannis if that remained an option? This war had gone on too long, and they were too close to the end to leave any matter unattended.

Tywin owed no explanation to Jon, “We leave on the morrow to march on Castle Black, as planned.”

Jon raised his chin, “I wish to join your brother as he sails south. I will return with the messenger.”

Tywin knew his face bore a look of surprise, “No. We may need you to sway your brothers in black to our cause, if Stannis and his men do not surrender.”

“I thought you said Stannis would be a fool to put up a resistance?”

“And I thought you said after the Boltons were dealt with you wanted to return to the Wall – to be there when this army of the dead marches on the wall…”

Jon rubbed his forehead, “Aye, I do. But the Ironborn…”

“The Ironborn are for Jaime to deal with, if he hasn’t already.”

Tywin turned and left; he would say no more. He knew King’s Landing would be difficult for the Ironborn to siege, yet a fear had settled in his chest as soon as he saw his wife’s hurried letter.

His sleep that night was fitful, and he rose before the sun, ready to head north on the Kingsroad even as his heart beckoned him southward.

**Sansa**

> _Lady Sansa,_
> 
> _I have received your message via my brother at the Dreadfort. He will return to the capital with haste, though I’m sure you, Jaime, and Tyrion have the matter well in hand. Let my sons and their loyal men carry this burden, you must not take on additional stress. Tommen must learn how to handle these situations, and I trust his uncles will guide him appropriately._
> 
> _I am pleased to tell you we have captured both Winterfell and the Dreadfort. Only the Karstarks fought with the Boltons, out of either stupidity or fear I know not. The Bolton bastard thought he could out-think us. He was wrong. He thought he could use his wife against us – also wrong, as our own bastard Jon Snow verified the girl was not your sister. Your brother was the one to finally put the bastard down._
> 
> _We leave behind enough men to hold your home under the Stark and Lannister banners. Tomorrow we proceed north to deal with Stannis. I remain confident. His men cannot expect to last the winter at the Wall, or want to, moreover. Then it will only be a matter of accepting their vows of fealty on behalf of King Tommen, meeting with the Night’s Watch to take measure of the real situation in the far north, appointing a Warden of the North, and preparing for our return to the capital. _
> 
> _On a separate note, Jaime was to tell my sister Genna to reach out to her Frey kin-by-marriage to see about having Lord Umber released. The Umbers are, apparently, quite an influential family. Their loyalty would be most welcome in the months and years to come. Please reiterate to Genna the importance of getting this done – I fear with the Ironborn arrival it may have fallen off her list of priorities._
> 
> _I shall write you after Stannis is dealt with. Until then, be well, wife._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Tywin_

Sansa crumpled the parchment after reading it three times, looking for any of Tywin’s subtle yet meaningful affection. He seemed completely unconcerned about the Ironborn. In so many words he told her not to trouble herself, to let Jaime and Tyrion and Tommen handle it. If only he knew all three of them, and so many other _men_ more qualified than her, had been bedridden and barely conscious for the past weeks. If the Ironborn had chosen to attack, there would now be a Greyjoy on the throne. All the men of the Red Keep would be dead, all the women in chains. Was Tywin that calloused or that confident?

Sansa tried not to resent him for it – after all, it would have taken him more than a month to march back to the capital, and he couldn’t abandon the north now… but was it too much to ask for him to show a bit of concern? Sansa took deep breaths, trying to calm herself. She needed her wits about her for this next task. With one final inhale and exhale she let her mask fall into place as the guards pushed in the door.

Forsaking empty courtesies, she entered and sat immediately across from their _guest_.

“You have met with King Tommen and Lord Tyrion yet refused to speak one word other than to ask for the ‘lady lion’. Here I am. Speak.”

The fair-haired, fair-skinned girl merely stared at Sansa. Sansa stared back. The girl before her – well, technically she was a woman – was not what one expected when meeting someone who called herself a Dragon Queen. She was very short, obvious even when sitting. Her cheeks had a youthful plumpness that Sansa imagined would make her look like a girl of four and ten for all of her life. She was very pretty, no doubt, but not what Sansa considered sexy or alluring, yet by all accounts she had men fawning over her everywhere she went.

Sansa had forgotten she was waiting for Daenerys to speak until she opened her mouth and spoke with an air of command, “Where are my children?”

“I assume you mean your dragons. They are in the dragon pits. Unharmed and well-guarded.”

Daenerys’ eyes narrowed, “Why did you kill the Ironborn? They came to trade me, not to attack you.”

“Within Westeros they are raiders, rapers. They are men without honor, men who cannot be trusted. Did you not learn that lesson yourself?”

Daenerys snorted, “The same can be said about Lannisters and Baratheons… You are nothing more than usurpers who stole the crown from your rightful king, my father, for your own glory.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, she would not suffer this foolishness, “Not for their glory, for the sake of the realm. Your father was mad. I don’t mean quirky, I don’t mean eccentric… he was mad, and worse, he was sadistic. He killed my uncle and grandfather in the cruelest of ways. He burned people alive for his own entertainment. He was known to rape not just wenches, but also his own wife, and allegedly some women of court. Tell me, Lady Daenerys, does that sound like someone who should rule the Seven Kingdoms?”

Daenerys sneered, “Those are lies fabricated by the last King Robert to justify his taking of the throne. He wanted the throne for himself and he made up those lies so he’d be called ‘hero’ not ‘usurper’.”

Sansa threw her head back and laughed, “Robert Baratheon didn’t want the _throne_! He didn’t want to _rule!_ He wanted to fight, fuck, and drink his way through life. He was good in battle, and men followed him. He was a fierce fighter, and the man was not cruel like his predecessor and his successor, I’ll give him that.”

Daenerys’ eyes widened slightly before she regained her composure, “His _successor?_ You mean his son Joffrey Baratheon?”

“Yes, Tommen’s brother, though thank the Gods, Tommen and Joffrey are as different as day and night.”

Daenerys snorted, “Joffrey was your grandson by marriage, was he not?”

“He would have been, had he survived another fortnight. All Joffrey ever was to me was gaoler and tormentor. He was as unfit to rule as your father. Luckily, I wasn’t the only one to know that. Now we have a kind and just king… a benevolent king who cares about the kingdom, and it is good timing, as winter is coming.”

“Tommen is the son of a usurper the same as Joffrey!” Daenerys stood.

Sansa remained seated, not letting Daenerys’ outburst affect her in the slightest, “No, not a usurper. A usurper seeks power for power’s sake. Robert Baratheon and his allies claimed the throne by right of conquest, and for a just cause. It was less than a lifetime ago, yet no one is clamoring for the return of a Targaryen monarch – does that not tell you something?”

“Yes, that people are afraid of Lannisters and Baratheons! People should not be made to live in fear.”

“Afraid? _Afraid?!_ The only people who we’ve burned alive by _us_ are those that threatened the capital – a city that is filled with nearly a million smallfolk, might I remind you… On the contrary, even before the Mad King you Targaryens were known to bring people to kneel by using your dragons and their fire. My family, the Starks of Winterfell, can trace our ancestry back eight thousand years. It was only in the last three hundred that Targaryens have been in Westeros. Your ancestors came here from Essos to conquer… to bring everyone to kneel… and now you dare to act as if the throne is a right only of Targaryens?! You dare to call yourself a queen? It takes more than your name and your blood to be a queen – or should I say, to be a _good_ queen.”

“I know that better than anyone! You think _I_ wish to rule for the glory? I want to bring peace to the entire realm… I want women to not be slaves to their husbands, to not be threatened with rape if they aren’t obedient! I want there to be no slaves at all! I want no men to be sent to war because their _king_ demands it! It is a wheel that has been rolling forever, and I intend to break it,” Daenerys’ fists were clenched.

“So that is _really_ what you want? Or do you wish to take the throne to secure it once again for House Targaryen?”

Daenerys cheeks flushed, “I am the last Targaryen, and I will be the last Targaryen.”

Sansa furrowed her brows, “It is true then – you are barren?”

Daenerys nodded solemnly but shed not a tear.

Sansa nodded back, “Then I am sorry for you. I too am the last of my line, and after the… _abuse_ I suffered at the hands of King Joffrey, I feared I would also be barren. But the Gods have blessed me with a child. It is a joyful feeling, and I am truly sorry if you will never have it.”

Daenerys eyed Sansa curiously, “Your child will be a Lannister. Your people have been at war with them, have they not?”

“Yes, though my husband was not part of that war, initially. He did not enter it until my late mother kidnapped his son. Joffrey was the real enemy, and his mother Cersei. That is not to say everyone else was innocent – far from it – but if Robert had lived, I doubt that war would have happened.”

Daenerys’ eyes softened but her countenance remained stern, “I appreciate this history lesson, but none of that changes things. I have heard of the situation here in Westeros – people starving… riots… lands being pillaged…”

“Yes, Robert allowed the realm to fall into disarray. I told you he was a fierce soldier, but he had neither interest nor aptitude for ruling. He put trust in the wrong people and let the Crown fall into debt, which hurt the smallfolk. Joffrey only put fuel on the fire. But my husband and I, along with my goodson, Lord Tyrion, and others, have been working tirelessly to right these wrongs. King Tommen is young, but he is learning. He is learning that prosperity is only real if it effects the entire kingdom, not just the noble families. You spoke of a wheel you wished to break… we are breaking that wheel right now.”

Deanerys snorted, “I find that hard to believe. Lannisters rule this city, and Lannisters are not known for their generosity.”

“The Westerlands is one of the most stable and prosperous kingdoms, thanks to my husband – he needs not be motivated by altruism to do right by his people. It would seem your source of information on Westeros is not entirely accurate. I dare say, someone has been stoking the fire in your heart with lies and exaggerations. Likely someone who will profit from your rise to power. You seem to be an intelligent woman, perhaps you can deduce who that might be…”

Daenerys seemed to be considering her words, but Sansa could see the rebellion in her eyes. Sansa knew she had no cause to trust her words, but perhaps she could show her…

Sansa rose suddenly, “Come with me.”

Daenerys didn’t move.

“Please, Lady Daenerys, perhaps you should have a tour of this city you wish to call home.”

A half hour later, they were trotting out of the Red Keep with sixteen guards. Sansa had invited Shireen to join them, as the girl was getting stir crazy after being cooped up for so long.

As they rode through the streets, the few people who were out and about stared warily at Daenerys, but their eyes brightened when they saw Sansa. “Lady Lannister!” they shouted. Others called out words of thanks or praise for saving the city. Sansa blushed, knowing she was not the hero they saw her as. It had been Tyrion’s idea and Qyburn’s execution to use the wildfire in a targeted attack. Ser Jaime led the men by ship, and Ser Banefort led the men on the beach. Sansa waved back and smiled slightly but didn’t linger.

“Unfortunately, you will not get to see our city in all its glory,” she spoke toward Daenerys over the clopping of hooves, “About a moon before the Ironborn arrived, a plague struck our city. We combatted it as best we could, but it was highly contagious and potent…”

Daenerys turned to face her, “The Ironborn began coming down with fever and coughs…”

“Yes, it was the same illness.” Sansa didn’t meet her eyes as she continued, “Our city has been ravaged by this disease, it has strained our resources, though luckily we received shipments from our friends in Dorne, the Westerlands, and the Reach.”

“Dorne? I thought Dorne was at odds with the Crown?”

“You are once again misinformed. While there is history of mistrust, my husband’s granddaughter is engaged to the Dornish Prince’s heir. A match of love, by all accounts. Prince Doran respects my husband, even if they will never be friends…”

“Soon the Stormlands, too!” Shireen peeped up excitedly, “Lord Lannister has gone north to offer my father a chance for peaceful surrender. His men will be allowed to return home if they choose.”

“Your father is Stannis Baratheon? King Robert’s younger brother?”

“Yes. My father fought against Joffrey’s claim, but the Gods did not will him to be king, apparently.”

Sansa offered a sad smile and squeezed Shireen’s hand; she knew her father was a source of emotional conflict for the girl.

Sansa nodded up ahead, “Here we are.”

“Where are we going?”

“This is one of the shelters of King’s Landing. It is my duty to oversee them since I was appointed as Master of Welfare by King Tommen.”

Daenerys’ eyes went wide, “I thought Westerosi lords did not permit women to positions of import…”

Shireen chirped again, “Lady Sansa is the first! King Tommen respects his grandmother. She’s also on his Small Council of advisors!”

Sansa once again felt her cheeks flush but focused on dismounting. Upon entering the building Sansa was glad to see the men, women, and children looked well. This was one of the shelters where the healthy were congregated, and Sansa was glad to see they had stayed that way.

Of course, everyone silenced at seeing the three women and their guards enter. They eyed Daenerys but soon their shock was broken, and they began greeting Sansa and Shireen, and nodding warily but not unkindly at Daenerys.

“Why have you brought me here, Lady Lannister?” Daenerys asked after the residents had gone back to what they were doing.

“You speak of breaking a wheel, of freeing slaves… Slavery is illegal in Westeros, but I recognize that some men, women and even children still live as slaves because they are too poor to better their situation. Women selling their flesh to put food in their bellies is no different then the sex slaves I’ve heard of in Essos. A child forced to work his fingers to the bone in order to help contribute to their family’s meagre earnings is no better than the slave labor in Essos. I thought you would be pleased to know that I, under King Tommen’s direction, am working to change this. We have begun to institute education and vocation programs in the city’s poorhouses and orphanages. Unfortunately the plague has obstructed our progress, but we will resume our efforts in earnest shortly.”

Shireen smiled, “Some of the children are even learning their letters and numbers, Lady Daenerys! Just think how easy it will be for them to find work!”

Daenerys nodded slowly and watched as Sansa spoke briefly with the Headmistress to see about the supplies that were needed.

The entire ride back to the Red Keep, Shireen peppered Daenerys with questions about her dragons. Sansa mused that Shireen would make a good diplomat or ambassador – she charmed Daenerys just like she charmed Ser Davos, Tyrion, Sandor, and Sansa herself.

**Sandor**

The imp’s stunted legs struggled to catch up with their party. Sansa – who seemed to take her role as his goodmother quite seriously – admonished him, “Tyrion, I can hear you wheezing from here. You should still be abed.”

“And miss the opportunity to see the Last Targaryen with the last dragons? If it leads to my death, it will have been a worthy sacrifice!”

Sansa shook her head but said no more. Daenerys had asked to see her ‘children’ – bloody fire-breathing beasts with tempers worse than Sandor’s – and Sansa allowed it. Sandor was among the guards escorting the two women – and now one dwarf – to the dragon pits.

The beasts were clearly agitated but seemed to calm when they saw their mother alive and unharmed. Daenerys’ face immediately broke into a smile. Tyrion’s mouth dropped open. After several moments of just watching the spectacle, he walked a bit closer, though still out of reach, and spoke airily, “They’re the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen!”

Sandor snorted, “You’re breaking all the whores’ hearts.”

Sansa silenced him with a glare even as Tyrion laughed. Daenerys seemed surprised and flattered by how enthralled Tyrion was. It was clear the woman was proud of her beasts and the awe they inspired.

The black beast and the green beast were completely focused on their mother, but the one that was cream and gold sniffed the air in Tyrion’s direction, and inched toward him.

“Are they all males?” Tyrion asked.

“Yes. That one nearest you is Viserion. The large black one is Drogon, and the green one is Rhaegal.”

“Have you ridden them yet?”

“Only Drogon,” Daenerys answered, “The others are less… tame. But they still follow my commands.”

“This one is beautiful, though I suppose as a Lannister I’m drawn to the color gold. But oh my, never in my dreams did I imagine anything this beautiful.”

Sandor rolled his eyes though no one saw the expression. They were lizards that flew and blew fire. The imp spoke as if they were exotic concubines of Essos.

“My lady,” Tyrion implored, “Would I be able to… to touch one?”

Daenerys looked at Tyrion before nodding, “Viserion seems quite calm. Here,” she held out her hand to Tyrion, who took it and held it as they approached the white and gold dragon and placed their joined hands on the beast’s neck. Perhaps it was the glint of the sun, but Sandor swore he saw wetness in Tyrion’s eyes.

None of this sat well with Sandor, and he didn’t know what to make of the so-called Dragon Queen. She was too arrogant by half – it would have been easy to believe she was raised in the Red Keep, except that there seemed to be a sincerity and decency behind her façade. Of course, it could all be an act for the sake of self-preservation. She was a prisoner here, no doubt about it. She was treated well, fed well, allowed to move about the keep (with Red Cloaks) but she was a prisoner. It wasn’t much different than the little bird’s time here when Joffrey was alive, only without the beatings.

Sandor didn’t understand why they didn’t kill the dragon bitch and her dragons the moment they stormed her ship. Let the big beasts sink to the bottom of the ocean. It was unnatural for one being to possess so much power, and even worse for a _person_ to wield that power.

Though even a killer like Sandor knew it was hard to kill someone when they weren’t directly threatening you. Put a dagger in Daenerys’ hand and rage in her eyes, Sansa would likely put her down herself without blinking. But a woman chained to a ship? A woman who wanted to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms not because she was like Cersei or Joffrey, but because she wanted to make things better for everyone? Sandor would swing the sword if ordered to, he was still an obedient dog, after all, but it would give him no pleasure.

And he knew Sansa struggled with this very dilemma. She had just masterminded the deaths of 30,000 men, yet now the taking of a single life was more pain than she could bear. He was certain no one else saw her struggle – no, they just thought she was waiting for her husband’s return – but in reality, she _couldn’t_ make the choice, and no one else was offering to relieve her of the burden.

While Sansa stared at Tyrion and Daenerys in the dragon pit, Sandor stared at her. The pain in her eyes shone through for a moment – the same glimmer he caught anytime someone commended her for her decisive action against the Ironborn or congratulated her on the victory. It was almost a wince… her lips curved up politely while her forehead pinched and her eyes frowned.

Only this day, when she turned and found Sandor’s eyes on her, he did not look away. She looked confused for a moment, he rarely made eye contact with her, particularly when others were around. But today he held her gaze and nodded. She needed to know that at least one person understood.


	49. Coming Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: there is a time jump of approximately 6 months from the end of the previous chapter.

**Tywin**

As King’s Landing came into view Tywin felt all the anxiety that he had willed away return with a vengeance. He hadn’t received communication from his wife, brother, or sons in nearly two moons. Of course, that was because he had been traveling for the better part of that time. Tywin ignored the thumping in his chest and focused on all that had been accomplished in the eight moons since he left Moat Cailin…

After successfully reclaiming Winterfell, their host moved north to Castle Black at the Wall. Jon Snow and Ser Davos proved their worth in securing an audience with Stannis Baratheon. Tywin nearly didn’t recognize the once tall, strong, and proud man. Stannis looked pale, gaunt and sickly, as if some invisible leaches were feasting on his blood. He spoke with confidence that wasn’t reflected in his eyes as he listed all the reasons why Tywin Lannister couldn’t force his men into surrender. Tywin frequently looked to the men standing with Stannis as his senior commanders and advisors – their lord’s words clearly bothered them. No doubt those men only wanted to go home or go anywhere that wasn’t covered in two feet of snow. Their talks ended that day having made no progress with Stannis – but Tywin felt victorious as he walked out of the man’s tent. Word would spread through camp that King Tommen was offering peaceful surrender and that Stannis had refused.

What Tywin learned that evening from dining with the commanders of the Night’s Watch was that Stannis’ wife had died under mysterious circumstances a few moons ago, shortly after Jon and Davos absconded with Shireen. The Red Priestess Melisandre, whose toiling had allegedly led to the current state of Stannis and his men, had left more recently without explanation or farewell. Every day after that Stannis appeared to become frailer, as if Melisandre’s very presence had bolstered his physical and mental health.

On the third day of attempted negotiations, Tywin was surprised to be met not by Stannis, but by Ser Gunther, who looked stoic yet contrite. Ser Gunther told Tywin that Stannis had died in his sleep. Though the man certainly looked sickly, Tywin knew that Stannis had help leaving the world, likely in the form of a fur or pillow held against his face. The crime would go unacknowledged and unpunished.

Ser Gunther, Ser Theo, and Ser Devan met with Tywin. They were the three highest-ranking commanders in Stannis’ army, and within two hours they agreed to bend the knee to King Tommen. Each man in the army – which was now about four thousand since cold and fever had claimed many men – would be given three options. They could enlist in the Night’s Watch, request residence at one of the northern castles whose numbers had been depleted, or return to the Stormlands where Lady Shireen would be named Wardeness once she came of age.

A fortnight later every man had made his decision. Three hundred would stay at the Wall – this surprised Tywin though he wasn’t naïve to the fact that some men enjoyed the company of other men more than was natural. About eight hundred sought jobs and lodging at the northern houses and would be scattered amongst Winterfell, the Dreadfort, Deepwood Motte, and Bear Island, the latter of which had too many women and too few men – a reality that appealed to many of the soldiers.

Another fortnight after that, Tywin was gladdened to see the familiar figure of Ser Garlan Tyrell return to Castle Black with a group of Night’s Watch rangers. Tywin chose Garlan for this mission because he trusted the man to be honest about whatever they found, but also didn’t care if he lost a few _bits_ to frostbite. It was only as their party came closer that Tywin realized there were six men where there should have been eleven. For the six, _surviving_ wasn’t their only accomplishment, Tywin quickly learned. When Tywin approached Garlan for a report the knight could only point to a large bundle being dragged behind one of their horses.

Tywin still shuddered every time he thought of the decrepit thing that was unwrapped before his very eyes. Tywin had seen such a sight before – when traveling through war ravaged lands where corpses were left to rot out in the sun, only this corpse moved, and hissed, and gnashed her teeth like a hungry wolf. Tywin had looked at Jon Snow then. The expression Jon returned wasn’t one of triumph – no ‘I told you so’ in his eyes. He only looked disheartened, as if he, too, hoped it had all been a figment of his imagination. Ten minutes must have passed as they all watched this pathetic creature writhing within the ropes that bound it before Tywin had muttered a command, _“I will bring this to King’s Landing. King Tommen and the Small Council must see it for themselves.”_

Despite having irrefutable confirmation of these creatures’ existence, Tywin did not necessarily believe that such things could pose a threat to the long-standing, tall and mighty Wall. Many in the Night’s Watch – particularly the older men – agreed with him. Jon Snow only shook his head, _“I’ve seen the size of this army. It is comprised not just of tens of thousands of these once-humans, but also giants, wolves, horses, and bears. If and when they decide to march on the Wall they can overwhelm our gates, easily. We do not have the resources to kill enough of them to make a difference.”_

_“And how are you certain they will march on the Wall? If these things have the intelligence to assemble, to plan an attack, do they not have the intelligence to know how many of their kind would perish in the attempt?”_

Jon had snorted then, _“When my brother Robb marched south, did he not know how many of his men would perish? When Stannis attacked King’s Landing – did he not know? Did Robert Baratheon not know he would lose many men in his rebellion?”_

Tywin had bristled at the examples Jon was raising, _“All those men had a purpose – whether right or wrong – to do what they did… what motive do these creatures have?”_

Jon shook his head, _“I cannot claim to know their minds, but I know that every living creature shares certain instincts that are stronger than any other.”_

Ser Addam spoke up, _“Yes. The will to survive – but these things can survive beyond the Wall undisturbed.”_

Tywin snorted, knowing exactly what Jon was referring to, _“The instinct to reproduce.”_

Jon nodded, _“And these things reproduce by killing. They kill us, we become them. That’s why we burn the bodies of our fallen comrades, no matter how they died.”_

Tywin’s mind was brought to the present when they sailed into the bay. Lord Manderly – the new Warden of the North – had lent some of his ships so that Tywin’s host, and those men returning to the Stormlands, could return by sea from White Harbor rather than continue several more weeks on the cold road.

Twenty Ironborn warships had been added to the royal fleet, as he had been told through a letter from his brother Kevan. But Tywin knew little of what had transpired in the capital during his absence. His wife, his brother, and his son were short on details in their respective missives to Tywin. It made him feel uneasy that they would withhold anything from him – for surely, they’d have no reservations about sharing _good news_.

The greatest fear Tywin had, which made his stomach churn even now, was that Sansa or their child had perished. She’d have gone into labor about a moon ago, but since Tywin had been in transit that entire time – from Winterfell to White Harbor and White Harbor to here – he had no idea what to expect.

Upon disembarking, he was met by his two sons. A flurry of activity ensued as servants arrived to unload the ships.

“Jaime, Tyrion,” Tywin nodded at them once he stood on solid ground. The smiles on their faces were forced, and it immediately raised alarms in Tywin’s mind.

“Where is your goodmother?”

“Resting, father. She is one month since delivering and… well, she is resting.”

Tywin was simultaneously relieved and worried by Tyrion’s response.

“And my… child?”

At this both sons’ smiles became genuine, “Resting as well.”

Tywin nodded, “Tell King Tommen I shall be along within the hour to update him. Assemble the small council. Oh, and see to it that Lord Snow’s requests are all met.”

“Jon Snow?” Jaime asked, confused.

“He can update you on the developments,” Tywin was already walking toward the Tower of the Hand, his guards even having a difficult time keeping up with his long strides.

When he reached their apartments Tywin hesitated a moment before entering their bedchamber. His eyes immediately fell on Sansa’s sleeping form, then flickered to Shireen Baratheon, who stood and smiled, “Lord Lannister, welcome home,” the girl greeted him warmly, though Tywin did not meet her eyes as his were focused on the bundle in her arms.

He approached timidly and stared long moments at the swaddled babe. Copper fuzz covered the babe’s head, and pale green eyes peered up at him through sleepy lids.

“Would you like to hold your daughter, Lord Lannister?”

A hand tightened around Tywin’s heart. _Daughter._ He shook his head, knowing that holding the babe would bring emotions to the surface he did not wish to be seen. Shireen’s smile straightened a bit, but she nodded, “She is hale and hearty, my lord. Lady Joelyn Lannister. Red of hair, green of eye. She is a good baby, and already winning over the hearts of every man and woman who meets her.”

Tywin nodded curtly, “And Lady Sansa?”

“Better, my lord, but still weak.”

“It’s been a moon…”

“Her labor was difficult, my lord, and she had an infection after the delivery. The maester had to perform a procedure to remove some of the afterbirth that had not been expelled. But she is recovering now, my lord, just tired.”

Tywin nodded again, “I’d like a few minutes alone with my wife before I must report to King Tommen. Take the babe to her nurse.”

Shireen nodded but stopped when she had reached the door, “Please, Lord Lannister, don’t be too mad at her for not giving you a son... She… she saved the kingdom.”

Shireen left, giving Tywin no time to ask what she meant. Tywin didn’t remove a single piece of his outer clothing before laying in bed. His fear of disturbing his wife’s slumber was overcome by his need to be close to her – to touch her, to smell her. He carefully shimmied himself to lay behind her as they’d done so many times during their short marriage. He didn’t wrap his arms around her for fear of waking her, but he couldn’t resist the need to bury his face in her long hair and breathe in the scent that was so familiar to him even after months apart.

Then Tywin Lannister did something he hadn’t done in decades… he wept.

…

Tywin’s head was spinning after everything he’d learned during the council meeting. A plague had ravaged the city shortly after Sansa’s party returned from Moat Cailin. Nearly fifteen percent of the population had succumbed. Some who survived made a full recovery. Others – including Tyrion, Tommen, and Margaery – were left with a lingering cough that indicated weakened lungs. Among the notable deaths were Lady Olenna Tyrell, a Tyrell cousin, and several lords and ladies of court Tywin didn’t care one whit about. Kevan’s wife, Lady Dorna, nearly lost her life as well. After recovering enough to travel by wheelhouse she was sent back to Casterly Rock where the cleaner, clearer air would be better for her lungs.

The Ironborn warships had arrived at the height of this plague and Lady Sansa dealt with the mad Euron Greyjoy herself – first weakening his men by infecting them with this plague in a bold act of sending them contaminated fruit and water, then having wildfire secretly brought onboard most of the vessels and placed where it would heat and explode. Jaime and Ser Banefort took care of the Ironborn survivors – about eight thousand men, most of whom were either sick or exhausted from having to abandon ship.

Tywin’s eyes darted to Tyrion, who withered under his heavy gaze, “During the Battle of the Blackwater, I kept one barrel of the stuff, hidden in a secret and secure location. It had been my intent to use it all, but something stopped me – knowing it had served us well once and likely saved the city, I thought a small amount of it should be kept on hand in case there was ever the need for our maesters to study it in order to make more. Lady Sansa, Qyburn, and I devised a way to get it on the ships and place it for a delayed combustion.”

Tywin narrowed his eyes, “Did you not try to secure an alliance with the Ironborn?”

Jaime shook his head, “It wasn’t that simple, father.”

“Enlighten me.”

All around the table exchanged worried glances. Jaime cleared his throat and continued, “Euron Greyjoy indeed sought an alliance of sorts – he wished to sell us his plunder… Daenerys Targaryen.”

Tywin stood abruptly, “And why wouldn’t you accept, you fools?!”

Jaime’s cheeks flushed at being openly admonished, “Because he refused to sell the _rest_ of his plunder – Daenerys’ three dragons, which he would undoubtedly have used to conquer or ravage all of Westeros should he ever be able to command them.”

Tywin sat back down in his chair, blinking, “The girl and her dragons – you’ve disposed of them?”

Tyrion grimaced, “That seemed rather… final.”

…

Tywin was bone tired by the time he ascended the stairs to his apartments late that night. He had brought Jon Snow before the small council, along with the wight they transported from the Wall in a wooden crate. On the spot, Tommen committed to lend aid any way he could, and Jon visibly relaxed.

Of course, Tywin also went to the dragon pits to see these beasts for himself. Having known the Mad King’s cruelty better than anyone, he did not like the idea of this Daenerys Targaryen being allowed to live, but at seeing the dragons he couldn’t help but become excited by the possibilities even as he feared the ramifications. He had met with each of his sons, his grandson, his sister, his brother, and Lord Mace to receive updates. He also met with Maester Lantell who assured him Sansa would make a full recovery, and that he need not fear for her fertility. Tywin thought back to his conversation with Genna, in particular…

_“Ty, before anyone gets the chance to take credit that doesn’t belong to them, I thought you should know – your little wife – your lioness – I’m not sure this city would have survived without her.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“The plague… the Ironborn… dragons…”_ Genna shook her head, looking uncharacteristically introspective before continuing, _“And you should be proud of your sons, too. **Both**_ _sons.”_

Tywin snorted at her veiled attempt to tell him to go easy on Tyrion. He fought the desire to roll his eyes and instead nodded.

When he quietly pushed open the door to his bedchamber he was surprised to find Sansa awake, sitting at a chair in front of the hearth. She had their daughter pressed to her breast, and the sight was enough to make Tywin want to kneel before her and worship her until the end of his days.

**Sansa**

She heard Tywin enter but did not look up. He stood long moments just inside the door, but she couldn’t look at him. Her feelings had become so twisted in the past few months she at times felt she was losing her mind. By day she was capable and efficient as always, but by night she laid in her bed, paralyzed by either sorrow or anger. She worried about Tywin in the north, but she also began to resent him. He wasn’t here to see so many people die, to see people they cared about nearly succumb to the fever. He wasn’t here to deal with Euron Greyjoy.

He didn’t have to choose to burn alive thousands of men.

He wasn’t here to decide whether the dragon queen should live or die.

He wasn’t here to deal with the aftermath of the plague, which set the Crown back even further than it had been during Joffrey’s reign.

He wasn’t here to feel Joelyn’s kicks.

He wasn’t here to comfort Sansa from the night terrors that came with such frequency. Visions of men screaming and burning. Visions of loved ones drowning on the fluid in their lungs. Visions of Ironborn sieging the castle, raping and pillaging as they went, as they’d once done at Winterfell. Visions of giving birth to a monster that was her punishment for playing God.

He wasn’t here when it took two full days to bring their daughter into the world – two days of pain so intense Sansa would pass out after each contraction, only to be jarred awake by the feeling of being stabbed in her belly when the next contraction hit.

He wasn’t here to name their daughter, to hold her when Sansa was too weak to sit up.

He wasn’t here to comfort her when she fell ill after her labor, when she had to endure yet _more_ pain. It was Tywin’s name she called out in her fevered state, but it was never Tywin who came to hold her hand or press a cool cloth to her forehead. It was Genna, Shireen, Tyrion, Jaime, even Sandor. Never Tywin.

She logically knew none of this was his fault. She had asked him to finish the war, to give the north peace before the worst of winter set in. But logic became harder and harder to hold onto in the later months of her pregnancy, and impossible after giving birth. She vacillated between those two emotions – sorrow and anger. It was easy enough to hide – she was ill and then weak.

So now as he stood several feet away, she refused to look at him. Did he even know how hard it had been here? By contrast his time in the north seemed to have gone easier than they dared to hope… the Boltons were quickly beaten. Stannis died and his men surrendered readily. He wasn’t gone for eight months of battle. It was one day of battle, and the rest had been diplomacy. Deciding on the Warden of the North. Speaking with the commanders of the Night’s Watch. Traveling from Moat Cailin to Winterfell. From Winterfell to Castle Black. From Castle Black to the Dreadfort to name a new lord. From Castle Black to Winterfell to meet with representatives from every single house – minor and great alike – so they could swear fealty to King Tommen. He negotiated trade agreements… all important tasks, yet more important than being there for the birth of their child? Had he not promised he would do everything to return to her before her time had come?

When Tywin finally walked toward her, her chest didn’t flutter with anticipation, it thrummed with fear. Suddenly he felt like a stranger to her – they spent more months apart than together in their marriage thus far. Would their time apart have made him forget all his affection for her? Was that why he did not make haste to return to her? He certainly wasn’t a man prone to warm and delicate emotions – perhaps the roots of their love had not been strong enough to survive their time apart, like a young plant that dies at the first frost while older plants survive.

Suddenly self-conscious around this man who was her husband, Sansa covered her breast with a shawl.

He began to speak – the voice she hadn’t heard in the better part of a year, “I… My lady, you should have summoned me when you woke. Did you not know I’d be returning today?”

The fear and sorrow yielded to anger as it so easily did these days, “I knew. I also knew you’d be busy and that if you had need to see me, you’d have sought me here.”

“I… I did. You were sleeping. Lady Shireen introduced me to our daughter. She has her mother’s beauty, I see.”

Sansa didn’t respond; she would not let him win her favor with compliments that were of no benefit to her. It was silent some time until Tywin moved to stand directly beside her, pulling the shawl away gently before stroking his daughter’s forehead with one calloused finger, “You need not cover yourself, wife, in my presence. It is natural. It is… beautiful.”

The earnestness in his voice was clear, and it began to break down Sansa’s cold resolve.

“Why won’t you look at me, Sansa?” Tywin’s voice was gentler than she’d ever heard it. He had not become hardened to her in their time apart, and yet they had still been apart… he had still been gone.

When Sansa was silent, he ventured a guess, “If you think I’m displeased to come home to a daughter instead of a son, you’re wrong.”

Sansa shook her head.

“Then what troubles you? Are you feeling unwell?”

She pressed her free hand to her eyes, wishing for once the tears that came so easily now would not fall.

“Tell me, Sansa,” Tywin implored. He was now kneeling beside her, staring at her but still she had not met his eyes.

With a sob it came out, “You weren’t here!”

Tywin’s head pulled back as if she’d slapped him, “Sansa, I wanted to be here for the birth, travel was slow everywhere we went, believe me!”

“Not the birth, Tywin, you weren’t here for _any_ of it,” her voice was low, but the anger shone through.

“Sansa, I—”

“No, you don’t understand. They were all sick. Sick and death all around. There was no reprieve. No comfort, no peace. Jaime and Tyrion were sick. Tommen was sick. Sandor was sick. It all fell to me and I knew not what to do! They all looked to me for answers, and my only answer was to bring down more death, more destruction! I didn’t want any of it, Tywin!” She wept openly into her hand, no longer caring to hold the dam in place. Joelyn stirred in her arm, no doubt upset by her mother’s emotions.

She knew her husband was out of his element. Words of comfort did not come easily to him, especially when she was in such an unreceptive state. He stayed kneeling there, silent, one hand perched on the back of her chair, the other on her knee.

“Mothers aren’t meant to kill, Tywin. We’re made to give life, not take it. How will I ever feel whole again? What will happen when our daughter grows up and hears the songs they’re already singing about her mother? Killing men wholesale because their mere presence was a threat… they didn’t attack, Tywin, but they could have… so I killed them. I’ve cursed my soul…”

**Tywin**

Tywin could only listen to his wife’s hysterical ramblings, each word like a dagger twisted in his belly. In his short time back in the capital everyone sung his wife’s praise, yet here she sat berating herself for the same actions that earned her respect and love from everyone in the city. And worst of all, she blamed him for not being here to carry that burden. Men were born to be killers, that much he knew. Men were not immune to feelings of guilt, but they slept well knowing they lived while their enemies died. Another day that you and your family survived was a day to be thankful for – no matter the cost. But perhaps women were not built to carry such weight. Women sought not just survival but joy for themselves and their loved ones.

When their daughter became fidgety Tywin lifted her from her mother’s arms, only then realizing it was the first time he held his daughter.

_His daughter._

And also for the first time this day, Sansa looked up at him as if confused, before shaking her head in defeat, “I told Euron I’d not lose any sleep after putting him and his men to the bottom of the ocean. And I meant it… but now… I’ve lost much sleep.”

Tywin gently held his tiny daughter against his shoulder for a few minutes until he was certain Sansa had no more to say. He stepped into the hallway long enough to send for a warm bath to be brought into their antechamber. Once the bath had been brought in he extended his hand to his wife, then watched her debate whether to take it. Eventually she did, and he led her to the adjoining room where he handed her back Joelyn and began removing his clothing methodically.

He took back the babe long enough for Sansa to disrobe. His eyes flicked to her tummy – rounder than it was before they parted ways – and her breasts heavy with milk. He nodded to the tub and she stepped into it warily before sitting down. Tywin handed her Joelyn before slipping in behind her and pulling her against his chest – man and wife and child. The water – warm but not hot – felt good to Tywin’s weary bones and tense muscles. He wrapped his arms around Sansa so his hands lay over hers where they rested lightly on Joelyn’s back where she lay face down and nuzzled in her mother’s bosom, already drifting to sleep in the blanket of warm water.

“I was afraid she wouldn’t know me,” Sansa whispered after some time. “I was too sick to hold her or nurse her for three weeks after the birth. But I think… I think she knows I’m her mother.”

“Of course she does,” Tywin mumbled against the side of her head, “She’s been surrounded by your scent and your voice for nine months… she would always know you.”

They were silent again for some time until Tywin remembered a question he had, “Joelyn – is that Joanna and Catelyn?”

“Yes… I hope you don’t mind. I suppose it’s unusual for a woman to name her child after her husband’s late wife, but I thought… It’s a pretty name, I think. I thought about naming her for my sister, but if I’m ever reunited with her, she’ll have an even bigger head.”

Tywin snorted, glad to hear his wife’s humor return to her.

“Perhaps ‘Arya’ as her middle name? Or have you already chosen one?”

“I haven’t; I thought you might want to choose. Though Joelyn Arya Lannister does sound nice.”

“It does,” he agreed.

Sansa nodded.

Tywin had almost dozed off when she spoke again, “How is Jon?”

“He is well, though he seemed a bit somber of late.”

“Jon always seems somber.”

Tywin snorted again, “That he does. He is here, in the capital.”

“What?” Sansa sat forward, thankfully holding Joelyn tightly, and spun around partially to look at Tywin.

“It seems he doesn’t trust me to plead his case – or rather the Night’s Watch case – to King Tommen,” Tywin shrugged, “Or perhaps it’s just an excuse to see his lovely sister.”

“Where is he?!”

“He’s set up in the guest apartments here, along with Ser Davos. I thought Davos would like to be close to Shireen, and Jon would like to be close to his sister… and his niece.”

Sansa’s shock gave way to one of the widest smiles he’d ever seen on her. It was tempting to tease her for being more happy to see her brother than her husband, but instead Tywin said what he was _really_ thinking, “That smile… good thing you didn’t come north, it would have melted the Wall.”

Her cheeks flushed instantly, and Tywin couldn’t resist the need to stroke one with a wet hand. When she leaned into it and closed her eyes, a warmth spread through his chest that made him shudder.

“I missed you every day, wife… don’t you believe otherwise.”

She opened her eyes, clear blue and honest, “I missed you too, when I had time, and when I wasn’t mad at you.”

Tywin’s bellowing laugh echoed in the empty room, startling wife and daughter alike. Sansa giggled herself, and Tywin hoped he’d hear that sound every day for the rest of his life.

After briefly washing, the little family dried off and went to bed. They placed little Jo – as Tywin was already calling her in his thoughts – between them, and each laid on their side, taking turns staring at each other and at the product of their love.

_Love._

It was something that no one knew – not Kevan, not Genna, not Jaime – but Tywin Lannister had never told his first wife that he loved her. He never voiced the words out loud even though he knew them to be true in his heart. She knew she was loved, and knew Tywin was uncomfortable expressing such sentiments, so it was never an issue between them. But now the idea of something happening to either him or Sansa without those words ever having left his lips was unfathomable.

Just as Sansa’s lids were fluttering shut, the call of sleep fighting her desire to look upon her daughter as long as possible, Tywin whispered the words into the air, “I love you, Sansa.”

Her eyelids flew open. Tywin couldn’t help but smile when he realized he’d finally found a way to shock his wife into speechlessness.

Taking mercy on her he added, “That is, when I have the time and I’m not mad at you.”

Sansa’s mouth formed an ‘O’ before she grinned from ear to ear and whispered against Jo’s sleeping head, “Your daddy is very naughty.”

Tywin could only shrug, it was useless to try to deny his guilt.


	50. Truths Revealed Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two long chapters filled with dialogue and introspection, and little else.

**Tywin**

It was Tywin’s sixth day back in the capital and he was finally making time to meet Daenerys Targaryen himself. The delay was partly due to how busy he was once arriving back, and partly due to his desire to keep the woman feeling humble. She didn’t give orders. She didn’t give summons. Her barbaric horse warriors may have called her queen because they were impressed by her dragons but, here in Westeros, she was nothing but a would-be usurper, alive only by the mercy of Tywin’s wife, sons, and grandson.

Before meeting with her, Tywin had met separately with several people whose opinions he trusted to find out what they thought of this Daenerys Targaryen.

Sansa and Jaime were cautiously optimistic that the girl could be trusted. In Sansa’s case, it was largely driven by logic – Tommen and Margaery (or Tywin and Sansa) had the loyalty of the Stormlands through Shireen and the soldiers to whom they offered peaceful surrender. They had the loyalty of the North thanks to Sansa’s Stark blood and the aid Tywin and the Tyrells were sending. They had the loyalty of the Vale thanks to Tywin helping Lord Royce eliminate his Littlefinger problem, not to mention Lady Arryn being Sansa’s aunt. The Riverlands were too weak to much matter, but they also were loyal to Sansa due to her Tully blood, and moreover the Freys and Tullys held a fearing respect of Tywin. The Westerlands, of course, would never betray Tywin. The Reach was well secured not just through the Tyrell alliance but through Tywin’s good relations with the influential Tarly patriarch.

That left only Dorne that had the potential to go against the Baratheon/Lannister family and support Daenerys, however, despite the Martell’s animosity toward Tywin Lannister personally, they had more cause to hate the Targaryen name. The Mad King’s son Rhaegar dishonored his own wife, Elia Martell, by casting her aside to instead pursue Lyanna Stark. Doran Martell only supported the Targaryens during Robert’s Rebellion because the Mad King held Elia and her children as hostages. Of course, when Gregor Clegane, under Tywn’s orders, killed Elia and her children, it gave the Martells reason to hate not just the name Targaryen but also the name Lannister. That was a problem – right now Dorne was the strongest Kingdom financially and militarily speaking, other than the Westerlands. When Tywin shared this concern his little wife had something to say – and she spoke the words to the flames dancing in the hearth rather than to Tywin himself, _“I’ve tried to reconcile the man who holds me tenderly every night with the man who ordered the deaths of an innocent woman and her babes simply because they could pose a future threat to the Crown – the Crown you didn’t even claim… I’ve decided that you ordered Ser Gregor to kill them swiftly, mercifully, but that he defied your orders in a moment of bloodlust. Gods know the man lives for cruelty. In war, deaths are inevitable. Robert, my father, Lord Arryn – they had good reason to seek to overthrow the Mad King, if the stories about him are true, thus you had good reason to join their side. Your war was justified; your eliminating of your enemy was justified, but Ser Gregor’s actions were not justified.”_

Tywin had been speechless. He was… _ashamed._ He would let his wife believe this; most of it was true, anyway, but he had made no insistence that their deaths be swift. But nor had he told Ser Gregor to make them suffer. In truth, the manner of their deaths was of little consequence to young Tywin Lannister as he led his men in battle. The Mad King’s cruelty was well-known, and though Elia and her children were truly innocents, one does not secure his legacy by being merciful. Killing parents but leaving their children alive only assured that in a decade or two those children would be trying to kill you – as evidenced by Daenerys Targaryen herself. She didn’t even know her parents or siblings, yet she still rallied a large and fierce army with the hopes of taking King’s Landing and ending the Baratheon line.

This was Tywin’s exact thought as he studied the little woman who called herself queen. He had no idea what she had most recently said and didn’t much care.

“Tell me, Lady Targaryen, if you had succeeded in bringing your army here to take the capital, would you have let Tommen live? Tommen who wasn’t even alive during Robert’s Rebellion?”

Her lips drew together in surprise.

“What about my sons? Forget about Ser Jaime; would you have let Tyrion live – Tyrion who has Lannister blood yet was only a boy during the rebellion?”

Tywin thought about Tyrion’s appraisal of the young woman, delivered the prior evening, _“She’s not her father. If shown mercy and fairness, she can be a strong ally.”_

Daenerys opened her mouth to speak but Tywin continued, “What about my wife and daughter? My wife is a Stark – _her_ father was one of the major players in overthrowing _your_ father… would you have let her live? Would you have let our daughter, who unites the North and the West, live?”

A mild blush formed on the woman’s supple cheeks. Tywin pressed on, “Tell me in your vengeful fantasies you haven’t thought about killing some if not all of these people, either out of personal revenge or pragmatism to protect your claim to the throne… Tell me you’d not have sent someone to kill my granddaughter Myrcella, or Lady Shireen, both of whom have a claim to the throne through their Baratheon blood.”

To her credit, the girl finally responded by shaking her head. Tywin respected her for not trying to deny any of it.

“War is messy, bloody. War is wasteful. I stayed out of Robert’s Rebellion as long as possible. I stayed out of the War of the Five Kings as long as possible. I and the rest of my family are instilling in our young king that peace is always the best answer, though truthfully that concept is quite natural to him.”

Tywin sat back and took a breath; this was more explaining of himself than he was accustomed to doing, and why he was doing it was a mystery.

“You sought the throne because you felt you had a right to it. But did Robert not have a right to it? Your ancestors were conquerors – let’s not pretend otherwise. Westeros didn’t _wish_ to be ruled by them, but they had dragons which they used as weapons. Do you not know this?”

Daenerys’ face reddened, “Aegon’s Conquest – my ancestors united the realm.”

Tywin snorted, “To what end? For what purpose?”

“For peace.”

“ _Peace?!_ There has been nothing but skirmishes, rebellions, and wars since then. No, that was not their purpose. Try again,” his tone was condescending, but he could not suffer this girl’s ignorance.

“Perhaps their purpose _was_ peace, but it did not work out that way.”

Tywin shook his head, “If their purpose was peace then they were fools. Exerting your power – or rather the power of your dragons – to make people kneel – is that how you would seek _peace_?” Tywin snorted, “What am I saying – of course it is… that is what you intended to do. You were going to bring thousands of Dothraki and Ironborn here, not to mention your dragons, to take the throne. Tell me you’re not so ignorant that you don’t know what those savage cultures do when they sack a city. They _rape –_ not just women but children and even men… They _enslave_ … They _mutilate_.”

Tywin didn’t want to lose his temper, but the emotion he had suppressed since learning of the Ironborn sailing to King’s Landing was coming to the surface. He felt irrational fear for what _could_ have been if not for the decisive actions of his wife and son. Two nights prior Tywin woke to the sound of Sana’s whimpering. She was having another night terror. When he shook her awake, she confessed everything of her meetings with Euron Greyjoy… how he leered at her, how he made lewd remarks about her appearance, how he told her Ser Jaime wouldn’t be able to stop him from having her when his men took the city. How he said he could smell her fear and her… 

Tywin shook his head, “Do you know how sick it makes me to think of that Greyjoy cretin standing within inches of my wife? My _pregnant_ wife. And he was here because of _you_ – whether it was your intent or not. I’ve killed men for lesser offenses.”

“So then why am I still alive?!” the girl finally found her voice, and her courage.

Tywin snorted, “Perhaps I’m going soft.”

A half smile formed on the girl’s plump lips, “I doubt that very much.”

“Perhaps I don’t enjoy killing innocents whose actions are misguided, but not intentionally evil.”

“And that’s how you see me? Innocent? Misguided?”

“Would you prefer I see you as evil, like your father?”

Her cheeks reddened but Tywin would not give her the opportunity to deny it, “You never met the man. I was his hand for many years. My eldest son served him closely. I have no reason to lie to you about his character.”

Danerys straightened her back and pressed out her chin, “And your son has told me of his character… of the real reason he became a _kingslayer_. I did not wish to believe it, but…”

Tywin knew not of what she spoke, but he let his expression remain neutral.

“But your youngest son confirms it… that the wildfire he used to burn Stannis Baratheon’s fleet and later the Ironborn fleet was made by my father to burn the city should it fall… This I also didn’t want to believe, but your wife told me how her uncle and grandfather died. I doubt your wife’s brain is capable of concocting such sick cruelty. Then there was also…”

She looked toward the hearth, and if Tywin wasn’t mistaken her eyes glistened with moisture.

“Also what?”

“Do you know Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jorah Mormont?”

“Yes. The former was a man above reproach; Ser Jorah was a slaver, exiled by Lord Eddard Stark. What of them?”

“You may know Ser Jorah by his past misdeeds, but I knew him as a loyal man, a good man. A man who was sent by Robert Baratheon to kill me but instead helped me. Ser Barristan also served me admirably after leaving King’s Landing. I trusted both men implicitly. Whenever I spoke about my father’s legacy, neither could meet my gaze. I always sensed there was something they weren’t telling me, something they would have been uncomfortable in revealing… since I was old enough to know my name, I’ve been motivated by a desire to avenge my family – the father who was betrayed… but in the months since I arrived here, I have been given cause to think that perhaps…”

“Perhaps it wasn’t a betrayal, but a righteous conquest,” Tywin finished her thought, and was wise enough not to ask what became of the loyal knights she was clearly fond of.

Daenerys nodded, and Tywin could almost feel pity for the girl whose lifelong beliefs were shattered in a matter of months.

“Surely it was not just vengeance that motivated you,” Tywin needed to know if she still posed a threat.

“I… In Essos there are slaves – men who are forced to fight, women who are forced to… well, I’m sure you know. I wished to free these slaves. For Westeros I wished to relieve the people from living under inept and cruel kings… However, in speaking with your wife I believe that…” Daenerys took a deep breath, “Your wife’s words have resonated with me. I believe she shares my values. But I’m afraid of being deceived, Lord Lannister. It has happened too often in my young life. But I cannot be deceived by my own eyes, and what my eyes see is a city that is starting to flourish. Smallfolk who are finally feeling a better way of life. I have only seen this city, and only under the watchful eye of your wife or son and their protectors. But what I haven’t seen myself I have heard… I’ve heard you made peace with the North, that you are lending them aid… I’ve heard you have made peace with the remainder of Stannis’ men. His daughter Shireen is… well, she is quite lovely, intelligent, and uncannily perceptive.”

Danaerys looked up and met Tywin’s eyes so abruptly he nearly flinched. Her eyes narrowed, “You could be king. Why aren’t you?”

“Only mad men aspire to be kings.”

Daenerys snorted, “So King Tommen…?”

“Tommen didn’t _aspire_ to be king; nor would he have, except that it was his birthright. He is merely following the path that was laid out for him. I didn’t want the Crown after the rebellion, and I don’t want it now. When you’re at the top, there is no way to go but down. If you believe nothing else I’ve said today, believe that.”

Daenerys arched a pale eyebrow in what was either surprise or skepticism, but when she spoke next it was Tywin who was surprised, “Your wife should be queen.”

“My wife can accomplish all she wants to _without_ being queen, as she is currently proving.”

“And what if something had happened to your grandson? He fell ill with the plague. Who would have claimed the throne?”

Tywin knew when he was being tested, and that’s exactly what this woman was doing. She wanted to know whether he craved power for himself, or rather, whether he craved the _title,_ for she was smart enough to know Tywin Lannister was as powerful as a man could be.

“His sister, Myrcella, is next in line.”

“Then her betrothed – a Martell – would be King?”

“He’d be a consort. Myrcella would reign, and my wife and I would support and guide her as we are doing with Tommen.”

“And if Myrcella also died?”

“These are a lot of deaths in my line… is there something I should know?”

Daenerys shrugged, “Plagues, wars, winter, Ironborn attackers… death is a very real possibility.”

Tywin straightened his doublet; he didn’t like where this conversation was headed, “Shireen Baratheon is next in line. She would be queen; her future husband would be consort.”

A small smirk appeared on the woman’s mouth, “Lady Shireen is no Lannister.”

“She is not.”

“But she will be made to marry one, will she not? Your sons are a bit old for her, I would think, but certainly you have a nephew somewhere…”

“Shireen is presently a ward of House Lannister. She is being mentored by my very capable wife, and soon a match will be made for her. I do not pretend to know with whom…”

“But would it not be with someone who shares your blood?”

“Perhaps, or perhaps not.”

“Honesty goes both ways. I’ve been honest with you, Lord Lannister. Now return the favor.”

Tywin took a deep breath through his nose, “Fine,” he spoke curtly, “I am not a fool; I will not see Shireen wed someone who holds animosity toward my House. She will be wed to a Lannister or a Lannister ally. Does this make me a monster in your eyes?”

Daenerys shook her head, “Not at all, it makes you an imperialist. You wish to plant little lions all over the realm. You’ve already planted one in the north as easy as it was to plant your seed in your wife’s womb. Someday there will be a little lion in Dorne once your granddaughter gives birth. Margaery’s second son will not rule the Reach but will have a claim on it… What of your sons – will you find them nice ladies from the Riverlands? The Vale?”

Tywin shifted in his chair, “Imperialism is not by definition a bad thing. The more connected the kingdoms are through blood and marriage, the less likely war becomes. You may call me many things, most of them I won’t deny, but I am _not_ a warmonger. Consult with the maesters if you wish, or ask anyone who knows me, they will confirm this.”

“Very well, Lord Lannister.”

Tywin studied her a few moments, “Why are you asking me all of this?”

The woman shrugged, “You are my captor; I wish to better understand you.”

Tywin snorted. Sansa had said something similar in one of their earliest conversations.

Daenerys ignored his audible reaction and stood, beginning to meander around Tywin’s solar where they were having this discussion. She wandered to the bookshelf and called over her shoulder, “Does your wife share your fondness for books?”

“She shares my fondness for _knowledge_ , which can come from books.”

Daenerys nodded then continued speaking in a casual tone, “Your wife is young, beautiful, intelligent, graceful…”

“Indeed,” Tywin could once again sense that she was about to test him.

“She is much-revered. I’ve had many opportunities to observe her. She’s been kind enough to let me accompany her on some of her outings to the city’s shelters… the people are in love with her.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I dare say some of your men are in love with her as well.”

_And there it is…_

“As long as she does not reciprocate, it’s none of my concern.”

Daenerys skimmed her fingers along the bindings of the books, “Your sons admire her greatly.”

“As they should.”

“Her guards respect her; they are even fond of her.”

“Good; then they are more likely to die for her, should they be called upon to do so.”

“The smallfolk cheer her name.”

“Again, I’m pleased to hear it.”

“Pleased to hear there are so many men who are in love with your wife? _Young_ men, _handsome_ men, _capable_ men…”

Tywin rolled his eyes; he would not show how her words affected him. He’d have to be a monk to feel no stirring of doubt when someone like Garlan Tyrell shined his handsome smile at Sansa, or when Jaime and Tyrion had her in stitches with their humor, or when the Hound stole glances at her from his post by the door. If Tywin was being honest, he even felt some envy when Sansa threw herself into her half-brother’s arms at Moat Cailin, and again when they were reunited just a few days ago in Sansa’s bedchamber. Tywin’s fists clenched when Shireen told him of Sansa’s illness after giving birth – how Jaime, Tyrion, and even the Hound fussed over her, wiping her fevered brow and helping her take sips of water. He knew it was a good thing that so many capable men would die before seeing harm come to his wife, but it angered Tywin that it had not been _him_ to comfort her during those dark days. When Shireen bragged about how Sansa herself helped nurse the sick back to health – including, once again, Jaime, Tyrion, and the Hound, he wanted to have them all exiled. Images came to his mind of Sansa leaning over them, her sweet scent wafting into their nostrils, her soft fingers pressed to their foreheads, her gentle voice offering words of comfort. Sure, she was technically mother to Tyrion and Jaime, but that did not mean they saw her as one. Sansa told Tywin of Jaime’s strength and bravery in standing with her to meet Euron even though Jaime could barely get out of bed without assistance. He knew she was trying to make Tywin proud of his son, but all Tywin could think about was how, while he was thousands of leagues away, his handsome knight of a son was by Sansa’s side, giving her the support she needed even when he was in no position to do so.

He realized too late that he let something show through his eyes, for when he looked back to Daenerys she was smiling knowingly. He was certain he had failed her test – the test to see whether he was a jealous, covetous man, until her words proved him wrong, “And yet, these men haven’t lost their heads, or even been dismissed from their positions.”

Tywin once again straightened his doublet and forced his shoulders back, “I cannot fault men for admiring my wife; I’d be a hypocrite if I did.”

Daenerys’ head cocked to one side, her brow knitted, “You love her.”

Tywin’s upper lip lifted derisively, “That is none of your concern.”

The woman was not intimidated, and that was maddening in and of itself, “What would you do, Lord Lannister, to a man who harmed your wife?”

Tywin leaned forward, no longer concerned to let his true emotions show, for this was still a test, “Any man – or _woman_ – who acted in a way that harmed my wife – directly or indirectly – will come to know the meaning of pain. I do not delight in brutality, but I’m perfectly capable of it… I would destroy everyone and _everything_ they hold dear, and inflict every pain known to man on their person.”

Tywin sat back, his chin high, “Let’s stop with the games, girl. You want to know why you’re still alive, and I want to know if keeping you alive will be something I come to regret. I’ll give you the answer you seek then you give me mine… fair?”

Daenerys raised an eyebrow but showed her agreement with a subtle tilt of her chin.

“You’re alive because my wife and sons are merciful. You’re _still_ alive after my return because I trust their opinions. You’re also alive because you control three dragons, and I’m afraid they may come in handy in the near future – and soon I will show you why. I do not ask you to publicly swear allegiance to King Tommen, because oaths can be broken. I only ask that you never act against him – or anyone in my House, or my allies, which at the moment includes almost the entire continent. If you start a war, I will finish it, but I’d rather it not come to that… so, will I regret my leniency?”

Daenerys’ smug smile returned, “I do believe you have been honest, Lord Lannister. So I will return the gesture. I am not foolish; I see now the kingdoms are united behind King Tommen and his family – namely you and your wife. It would take more than three dragons and my Dothraki army – assuming I could get it here – to take the throne and hold it indefinitely. And what would be the cost? How many lives on both sides would perish? I wanted to be a queen, not a conqueror, but I fear now the only way I can be the former is to be the latter. But all I’ve said are reasons why it would be ill-advised to defy you. Beyond that, I am willing to put my own ambitions aside because I see that you are already working toward what I wish to see – a prosperous, peaceful realm. As long as that remains your goal, I will not defy you or your allies, Lord Lannister. But give me one reason to believe you are just another self-obsessed lord, or that Tommen is just another tyrant, and I will personally lead the rebellion against you. And though you may have many allies, you were at odds with most of them until recently… I suspect it won’t be difficult to win Dorne, the Stormlands, the Iron Islands, perhaps even the North to my cause, should you prove _not_ to be good for the realm…”

Tywin nodded, “You understand you must remain in the capital.”

Daenerys snorted, “I told you; I’m no fool. But I am not made to be idle. I’m something like your wife.”

“You wish to have a role of some sort?”

“Indeed.”

Tywin considered her open-ended request before nodding, “Very well, _after_ you’ve proven your trustworthiness.” Tywin rose, “It’s time you met Jon Snow, and our other northern _guest._

…

A few days after Tywin’s return, Sansa was finally able to walk around unaided, though she had not yet left the Tower of the Hand. When, the prior night, Tywin had told her of his plans to introduce Daenerys to Jon Snow and his pet _wight_ , Sansa insisted on joining them. Thus she bathed and dressed this morning, as they would all meet just before lunch. As was her ritual, Sansa had a maid bring Jo to her to nurse first thing in the morning. Sansa knew the use of wet nurses was common, yet she felt an odd pang of jealousy at the sight of her little daughter suckling at another woman’s teat. Since Tywin returned, the feeling only became stronger, as it was clear that the sight of Sansa nursing their babe stirred his love and lust. The man who was rarely idle would stop what he was doing to watch them in reverie. He would often come over to stroke Sansa’s cheek, or Jo’s head. Sometimes he would kiss Sansa’s hair and breathe in so deeply it was like he was trying to inhale her very being.

Beyond the irrational jealousy of her wet nurses, Sansa was over-protective of her daughter. Perhaps due to her own suffering at a young age, or the horror stories she heard from the children in the orphanages, Sansa was hyper-aware that innocent babes were not immune to violence. A young woman at one of the poorhouses gifted Sansa an odd contraption in the seventh moon of her pregnancy. The woman called it a pouch, but it looked to Sansa like some type of large sling, like Robb wore when he broke his arm. Wrapped around her chest and one shoulder, it held Jo against her breast so Sansa had use of both her arms while carrying her babe. Sandor laughed the first time he saw her wear it, _“You’re going to spoil that little brat, she’ll never want to walk on her own if she can just be carried around.”_ Tywin expressed concern that it would be too much strain on Sansa’s back and shoulders, but Maester Jeran assured him that after carrying the babe for nine moons in her lower belly, this was much less strenuous. The most amusing reaction of all was Tyrion, who asked if they made the sling in “dwarf size” so some beautiful woman could carry him around at her teat all day. It was Jon’s reaction that brought Sansa to tears, though. He didn’t mock her for wanting to nurse and care for her babe; he reminded her how Lady Catelyn had taken an active role in the care of all her children. When Sansa dabbed at her eyes Jon smiled, _“Of course, she stopped short of strapping them to her body, but I’d say you’re pretty similar, all-in-all.”_

Stepping out of her chambers, Jo _strapped in_ , as Jon would say, Sandor and Andre fell in with her steps seamlessly. It was some months ago that Sandor and Andre returned to a normal eight-hour shift since Sansa had taken on two more personal guards for a total of six. With Joffrey and Cersei long gone, Sandor no longer felt like the overnight hours were the most dangerous, so Sandor and Andre took the shift from seven in the morning to three in the afternoon. Sansa knew they used their seniority amongst the guards to pick their ideal shift – the hours she was most active and thus the timeframe least boring for them. Though when she had obligations outside the Tower of the Hand past three o’clock, she often found either Sandor or Andre joining her voluntarily. She argued at first but was secretly flattered that they worried for her safety so much that they would forego their free time to guard her back.

She was also proud that, during Tywin’s time away in the North, during which Ser Addam accompanied him, Sandor assumed the role of Captain of the Guards for the Lannister household. Of course, he’d never call himself that or even acknowledge that he was fulfilling the role, but it was obvious that he gave the commands not just to Sansa’s personal guards but the other guards in the Tower. Sansa almost bit through her tongue once when he even ordered Ser Jaime around during one of Sansa’s outings to the poorhouses – Jaime accompanied her with regularity, and she smiled to know it was because of the promise he’d apparently made to his father before parting ways at Moat Cailin. When Sansa said as much to Jaime, hinting that there was some affection between the knight and his father, his cheeks darkened – a rare Lannister blush. He’d cleared his throat, summoning false casualness, and responded, _“You think too highly of me, goodmother. I only fear for my safety from my father if something should happen to you while I was sitting in the Keep drinking with Tyrion.”_

As they arrived at the dragon pits, Sansa was surprised to find Tywin, Jon, and Daenerys already there, though it appeared they had just arrived. Tyrion and Jaime arrived at about the same time as Sansa and she smiled at them warmly, even though things had been somewhat awkward between them of late due to things said at moments of weakness. In Jaime’s case, it was a moment of Sansa’s weakness. When her fever set in barely a sennight after giving birth, Sansa felt certain she would die. At times she wished she would, when the cramping and sweating became unbearable. She fell in and out of fever dreams, some of which were objectively frightening due to their very subject matter – waterlogged Ironborn corpses threatening to scale the castle walls, one with an eyepatch grinning as he hovered over a paralyzed Sansa saying he wanted to taste her. But others were even more disturbing. An image of Tywin coming home and meeting his child only to spurn it because it had killed its mother to enter the world. In this dream, Sansa was a ghost, unable to communicate with her husband or child but forced to watch Tywin completely neglect his own babe. She also dreamt of Joffrey, only in that dream she had an awareness that Joffrey was not her former King and tormentor, but her son. A son who tortured all those around him, including his own mother, and yet no matter the abuse Sansa couldn’t stop loving him.

She woke from one such dream to find Jaime and a maid at her bedside. It was often like this when she woke, though later she wouldn’t know which visits were real and which were dreams or hallucinations. She told the maid to leave – asking her to come back with fresh sheets since Sansa felt hers were cold and damp with sweat. The moment the young woman exited Sansa reached for Jaime’s hand, squeezing with whatever strength was left in her withered muscles, _“Promise me, Jaime. If I die, you need—”_

 _“Sansa, you’re not going to die,”_ Jaime responded, voice confident, eyes fearful.

 _“But if I do, make sure your father loves his child. Please.”_ Her throat was raw, but she pressed on, _“And if he can’t, or won’t, then you do it. You, Tyrion, Genna… Please don’t let my child grow up without love.”_

They never spoke of the conversation, but Sansa knew the prospect was a burden that Jaime feared, having witnessed firsthand his father’s coldness and sometimes even cruelty toward Tyrion.

The conversation that caused discomfort between Sansa and Tyrion, took place two months prior. Sansa and Tyrion were supping with Lady Shireen. By that point, Sansa was big with child – in her seventh moon. Shireen spent most of the evening prattling on about how excited she was to have a babe around, since she’d never had younger siblings herself. She asked Sansa if she’d be allowed to help care for the child when Sansa was occupied. Sansa, of course, agreed, causing Shireen to beam widely, _“Oh, thank you Lady Sansa! I know I will love your child like he or she is my own blood – like a little cousin or even,”_ the girl blushed, _“perhaps like a little brother or sister.”_

Sansa smiled, knowing Shireen’s words were heartfelt, but when her eyes found Tyrion, he had a pained look in his countenance – one she had seen before when her pregnancy was first revealed to him.

After supper, Shireen departed and Sansa confronted Tyrion about his odd change in mood. He denied it at first – or, rather, made excuses. _“I just fear for you, my lady. Childbirth is not an easy thing,”_ or, _“I only hope my father returns before your time, I know he would want to be here.”_

But Sansa, perhaps bolder than normal due to the ache in her lower back and swelling in her ankles, demanded he speak the truth to her. Tyrion shook his head but eventually complied, _“I do not wish to ruin the friendship we have, Sansa, but this,”_ he gestured at her belly, _“is just another reminder of how I’ve been passed over in life… often intentionally.”_

Sansa was confused but sensed he would tell her more if she gave him space. He drank an entire goblet of wine before continuing, _“My father has never loved me. I accept it; after all, he certainly wouldn’t be the first man to not love his children, and being as I killed his wife, he’d have better reason than most.”_

Sansa made to interrupt him but Tyrion held up his hand, demanding silence, while pouring and drinking another goblet of wine, _“But Jaime has time and time again made it clear he does not wish to be father’s heir, and I’ve proven time and again that I have a mind for ruling… yet father would sooner make a new heir, one who won’t be ready to rule for another sixteen years at minimum, than to acknowledge me.”_

Fear hit Sansa like a wave, and she placed her hands over her belly protectively. Even in his drunken state, Tyrion recognized her movement for what it was, and his eyes widened as he rounded on her, kneeling to make himself even less imposing, _“No, Sansa! I would never… I would never harm you or your babe, Gods how could you think that of me? It is not your fault, nor your child’s. Honestly if you never gave father a son, he would probably name a nephew before he named me his heir… it’s just a reminder of how…”_ Tyrion clenched his jaw, _“of how spiteful the man can be.”_

Tyrion had sat back on his haunches, chuckling darkly, _“I could tell you things about the man you married that would make your gentle heart lose every shred of love for him. But I won’t, because I’m **not** spiteful…” _Tyrion had reached for his goblet, draining it in one pull.

 _“Perhaps you overestimate the gentleness of my heart,”_ Sansa spoke numbly, _“Has your father done worse things than burning alive tens of thousands of men who weren’t attacking him?”_

Tyrion stared at her then, shock on his face as if realizing, for the first time, how much blood was on their combined hands. It took him what felt like an eternity to answer, “ _Worse in scale? No. Worse in cruelty? Yes.”_ Tyrion had pushed himself off the floor, taking the seat next to her and surveying her.

_“Then tell me, if you wish. Perhaps I’ll stop loving your father, and it will be your own act of revenge.”_

Tears welled in Tyrion’s eyes then, already bloodshot from too much red wine. He opened his mouth as if to speak but smiled instead. A sad but honest smile. He stroked Sansa’s cheek, _“Would you have loved me? If father had given you to me, named me his heir, would you have been able to love this?”_

Sansa was dumbfounded – had Tyrion been in love with her all this time and hidden it so well behind humor and brotherly affection?

Sansa responded with a question that had been living on her tongue for months, _“Cersei.”_

Tyrion’s eyes dropped to the floor, _“You want to know if—”_

Sansa did not let him speak those words out loud, _“I want to know **why** … For your father, or for me?”_

Tyrion nodded slowly then shrugged, resigned to his confession, _“Both. He may be a bastard, but he’s still my father.”_

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief then, _“I’d have loved you, Tyrion, but I would never have been in love with you.”_

She thought the words would hurt him, but instead his lips curled into a wide smile. He nodded knowingly, _“I think the feeling would have been mutual.”_

She squeezed his hands, and they spent more minutes smiling and chuckling in each other’s company, both fully aware of how bizarre their lives were – the son of the most powerful man in the realm, rich beyond imagination, yet a pauper in love and respect, and she, an enemy of House Lannister, in love with the patriarch of said house – a young woman men easily fell in love with, giving herself fully to a man nearly three times her age, whose heart was widely believed to have been carved of stone.

Sansa felt they had a deeper understanding and tighter bond after that evening, and in some ways still believed so, yet every time their eyes met after that Tyrion looked embarrassed, and she shared the feeling. Perhaps he feared she would tell his father all of his confessions, and perhaps he knew she often wondered about the story or stories Tyrion chose not to divulge.

_Would it really make me stop loving Tywin?_

Sansa shook the thought out of her mind, telling herself whatever Tywin had done in the past was not her concern, though it tasted a lie. She walked to stand beside her husband, who was staring down at his babe, wrapped into her mother’s chest.

“My lady,” he greeted stoically. She knew he bit his tongue to keep from saying more, and a glance in the direction of Jon, Jaime, and Tyrion confirmed they shared her appraisal as they fought to contain smirks.

“My lord,” she replied.

He nodded one time, “You will remain _here_ ,” he said. They were standing at the perimeter of the dragon pits; toward the middle some servants had placed a large wooden crate. Sansa’s curiosity was piqued but she would not push her husband any further. She nodded her agreement and watched Tywin glare daggers at Sandor and Andre – an unspoken warning that if anything should happen to his wife or child, they would be dragon food.

**Jaime**

Jaime watched in awe and fear as Jon Snow pried open the crate to reveal the undead creature of lore – a thing of nightmares, to be sure. Daenerys’ eyes widened, and a hand flew to her mouth before she appeared to swallow her bile. The flesh was rotted off the creature that had once been a woman. Only a few patches of skin and hair remained on what was otherwise a skeleton, though a rather irate skeleton at that. Its jaw chomped like that of a rabid dog. The chain that bound it to the heavy crate was thick and the creature was able to move the crate only inches at a time, giving those around it plenty of time and space to stay well out of the creature’s reach.

One of his father’s guards lost the battle against his own body and vomited several yards away. No one reacted or even seemed to notice other than Jaime, who found watching the man wretch to be a welcome distraction from the decomposed corpse standing before him.

“Lady Sansa, Lady Daenerys, Lord Tyrion, Ser Jaime – Lord Lannister has seen this creature before, and has heard what I am about to tell you,” Jon spoke loud enough for Sansa to hear from where she stood a good fifteen yards away.

Jon proceeded to inform them about the army of these creatures that had amassed north of the wall, the threat they posed, and the ways to kill them, which included fire. When his speech concluded, Tywin’s deep timbre took over, “Lady Daenerys, you fancied yourself the savior of the realm. If this army is indeed planning to attack, your dragons would be an effective weapon, though you’ll understand my hesitance in putting you atop a fire breathing beast while my armies are out there, exposed.”

Daenerys shook her head, “If you think I’d see an army of a hundred thousand of these _things_ and choose to instead attack an army of men – living, breathing husbands, fathers, and sons… then I fear I will never have your trust, and you might as well kill me and my children now.”

Tyrion’s mouth curled into a grin, something Jaime had seen much of when Tyrion was in the presence of this _dragon queen._

Tywin took a deep breath, “It may be there is no way to have reassurance that you will not turn against us when given the opportunity.”

Daenerys lifted a brow, an action that made her childlike face look more seductive, as she mocked his words, “It may be there is no way to have reassurance that you will not try to dispose of me after I serve my purpose in helping you kill this army of the dead.”

Tywin looked uncharacteristically surprised and Jaime recognized it as a sign that he hadn’t even considered how things looked from Daenerys’ point of view. Jaime couldn’t blame him, but he had gotten to know the young woman over these several months and found her to be misguided, but not stupid. She was raised on tales of her family’s great and noble legacy – tales spun by her elder brother and her Essosi benefactors who undoubtedly hoped some political or financial benefit could be gained through their affiliation with the last Targaryens. She believed her ancestors brought peace to Westeros after fleeing Valyria. She believed her father was overthrown due to greed and bravado – not because he was batshit crazy and pure evil.

Jaime thought back to the first time he met with the girl. He did not wish to reveal to her his secrets, particularly the one he’d only ever shared with Brienne of Tarth – Brienne who was still out there, somewhere, trying to find Arya Stark – Brienne who would probably die looking for a girl who was long dead, or very skilled at not being found.

But Jaime had recognized the double-edged sword that was Daenerys Targaryen. She could be their greatest enemy, or their greatest ally. If there was some way he could help push her in the direction of the latter, he needed to try. So he told her everything about her father, the Mad King Aerys II. He told her the real reason he plunged his sword through the man’s back – and what the price of inaction would have been at that time. Jaime looked back on the conversation and remembered her face – completely aghast – and his own voice, dripping with loathing for himself and everyone around him.

Eventually her shock wore off and skepticism took its place, _“Then if you had such a legitimate reason for killing him, why are you still called Kingslayer?”_

Jaime had snorted, _“Because I never told anyone.”_

_“Why?”_

Jaime could only shrug. In truth, he didn’t know why he never spoke up in his own defense, though some part of him now thought it may have been because he wanted the punishment – he wanted to be snubbed by society, because he was a sinner – even if his true crime wasn’t kingslaying. He was a sister fucker. He had betrayed his own little brother. He had stood by while the Mad King hurt those around him, including his own wife.

He wouldn’t give her the full truth, but a sliver of it, _“Because admitting how far gone he was would be admitting all the atrocity I’d already stood by and watched up until that point. Truthfully, I didn’t expect to be called ‘Kingslayer’. The honorable Ned Stark, who I suppose would now be my grandfather by law if he hadn’t lost his head to another mad king, knew of your father’s crimes. He killed Ned’s father and brother in the sickest of ways… I thought I’d get a pat on the back from Ned, instead he called me Kingslayer. Ironic, I suppose… Ned and Robert were the first to rebel against your father – and rightfully so… they had to know if victorious, they would take the Mad King’s life. Yet somehow me beating them to it registered as some sort of crime, at least in Ned’s eyes. Perhaps it’s simply that I stabbed him in the back. It’s funny really – men do the most depraved things to one another on a battlefield. They slice each other open, sever limbs, leave their enemy bleeding slowly in the mud. That’s never called cruelty, but swiftly killing a man with a well-placed strike through the back and into his heart – well, that’s quite another matter. An act of cowardice and callousness.”_

Jaime had found himself surprised by his sudden candor, and to a woman he’d only just met, but when he met her eyes again, he knew his confession would not be for naught. She nodded almost imperceptibly then readily changed the subject, _“You knew Ser Barristan Selmy?”_

Jaime smiled thinking of his former mentor, _“Knew him, learned from him, idolized him. He may go down in history as the last true knight.”_

Daenerys smiled herself, _“For the sake of the realm, I hope not, though if that happened it would be much deserved. He served me, Ser.”_

Jaime had sat forward abruptly. He always wondered what happened to Ser Barristan after Joffrey dismissed him from the Kingsguard in an act of idiocy. Then he noticed her choice of words, _“Served past tense…”_

Daenerys nodded, her smile falling away like a slate wiped clean, _“He and Ser Jorah Mormont died trying to save me from Euron Greyjoy and his men.”_ Daenerys had looked out the window then, _“He died for my arrogance. I thought because of my Dothraki army and my dragons that Euron posed little threat to me. Of course, I didn’t intentionally leave myself exposed, but I also didn’t do enough to protect myself. My most loyal men died for it.”_

Jaime snorted, _“You’re young, my lady. You haven’t seen battle even if you’ve seen strife. I myself have made mistakes, though I most certainly should have known better.”_

The girl hadn’t seemed assuaged by his words, but she offered a weak smile nonetheless, _“Ser Barristan did not suffer. He died defending his charge and doing so fearlessly. He took many of the squids with him, as did Ser Jorah. I like to think… well, if Ser Barristan respected you the way you respected him, Ser Jaime, perhaps he felt some retribution was paid when you and your goodmother disposed of them for good.”_

Jaime’s musings were cut short by the sound of dragons screeching. Feeling disoriented from his lack of awareness of the preceding minutes he drew his sword instinctively, then cursed when all eyes fell on him.

Danerys’ face immediately brightened as the heavy stone gate was opened to allow her dragons to emerge. Everyone but Daenerys and Tyrion stepped back. Jaime couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the way Tyrion held onto his childlike fascination with the scaled beasts.

“Lord Lannister, Lord Snow,” Daenerys nodded at the two men, “Allow me to introduce you to my children, Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal.”

As the dragons crawled out on the joints of their wings, the cream-colored one, Viserion, sought Tyrion immediately. Drogon had eyes only for his mother. By now Jaime knew the green dragon – Rhaegal – to be the most guarded. Jaime found the beast to be suspicious of all around him, though Daenerys simply called him her _shy boy_. ‘Shy’ was not a word Jaime would ever use to describe a creature that could kill hundreds of men within seconds.

Rhaegal seemed somewhat more curious today, sniffing at the air like a dog might.

Daenerys spoke again, “Viserion has taken a liking to your youngest son, Lord Lannister. Dragons are said to be quite intelligent, and Lord Tyrion is obviously fond of them; perhaps Viserion knows this.” Danerys beamed at Tyrion though several yards and one dragon separated them. Tyrion returned the expression and Jaime found there to be a certain shyness in Tyrion, himself.

As Jaime was wondering what to make of the exchange between Tyrion and Daenerys, Rhaegal began approaching Jon and Tywin until its chain jerked taut. Daenerys turned around, perplexed. She approached the beast and placed her hand on his snout, as if trying to communicate through touch. The dragon nuzzled her hand – a strange sight when her hand was barely a speck on the expanse of the dragon’s shimmering skin. Without speaking Jon Snow took one step toward the dragon. After a pause he took another step. Then another. The pattern continued for the twelve slow paces it took to nearly close the gap between them, at which point Jon looked to Daenerys. Brows knitted, she nodded. Jon took the remaining four steps to stand next to Daenerys, placing his hand next to hers on Rhaegal’s large snout. If Jaime weren’t mistaken, the beast took a deep breath then exhaled as if finding long-sought peace. His eyes became relaxed, and some tension left his body, like a soldier finally taking a load off after fighting in plate armor for hours on end.

Jaime turned to face Sansa, finding her to share his own feeling of wonderment. Jaime chuckled to see Clegane holding onto her elbow as if expecting her to run to save her brother from dragon fire should things take an unexpected turn.

But there was no malice or violence in the dragon’s eyes as Jon pet it, his face red with what Jaime suspected was suppressed emotion.

Though confused and wary, Jaime felt his own sense of relief that Jon and Tyrion might have some bond with the beasts. If they could control two of the three dragons, then Daenerys posed little threat. Sure, Drogon was the largest by far, but Jaime would take two medium dragons over one large one any day. His mind raced with possibilities, until his eyes found his father for the first time in long minutes. Tywin’s jaw was clenched, his cheeks were dark, and his eyes were narrowed. This expression normally preceded someone getting a tongue-lashing, but to Jaime’s surprise Tywin turned and walked toward the exit of the dragon pit, offering no excuse for his abrupt departure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why, but I love making Tywin jealous. In my SanSan and Jaimsa fics I don't make Sandor and Jaime jealous, but I love jealous Tywin. Perhaps it's my way of punishing him for being a jerk most of his life.


	51. Truths Revealed Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caution: might be my longest and angsty-est chapter yet.

**Sansa**

Four days after meeting Daenerys’ dragons, Tywin was still acting strangely. He was irate, guarded, and was putting distance between himself and Sansa. At first, Sansa assumed he was mad at her for bringing Joelyn to the dragon pits, which in hindsight she knew was foolish, even if she’d been there enough times with Daenerys and Tyrion to know there was little threat. When he offered no admonishment over that act, even when they were alone, Sansa knew it was something else. She thought Tywin might be worried about the potential for Daenerys to turn against them but worry had never driven Tywin away from her as it was doing now.

Out of respect for his patience with her occasional bouts of sullenness, Sansa allowed him time and space, but she felt he’d had enough of both to move past whatever was bothering him. Tonight she would confront him, but first she had another matter to attend – for Tywin was not the only one acting strangely. Jon had been evasive since that same day. She wondered if what troubled Jon was the same thing that troubled Tywin. She invited Jon to eat lunch with her and he reluctantly agreed, joining Sansa in her chambers while Jo napped in her crib.

Upon entering Jon went immediately his niece and gently stroked her sleeping head as a sad smile painted his face.

Sansa would not mince words, “Jon, you seem troubled of late. I know you have much cause for concern, as do we all, but is there something other than our shared problem that is making you leery?”

If Sansa was a bad liar, Jon was a terrible one. His cheeks flushed red, “Of course not, Sansa! I suppose I’m just… perhaps I’m coming down with something. I feel off. I’m sure it will be fine.”

Sansa studied her brother’s half-hearted smile.

With a sigh, she poured some warm ale for him, “If you think you can’t confide in me because of who I am married to, you are wrong. I have forgiven but not forgotten the events of the past years. I am and always will be a Stark first and foremost. Perhaps we were not so close during our youths, and I take all the blame for that, but you are my only family, my only blood family, other than my daughter. If you felt you couldn’t talk to me, trust me… well, I would understand, but I would not like it.”

Jon rubbed his brow, “Sansa, I do trust you, and I do care about you. I do not wish there to be secrets between us, and I don’t resent you for the path you’ve taken… but I have learned things… I’ve come into knowledge that is dangerous, and I do not wish to burden you with it.”

“Even if I can help to shoulder the burden?”

“You can’t; it would only put you at odds with your husband. I will go north when the time comes, I will not leave you alone with knowledge that you must not act on, with secrets you must keep for me.”

“Jon – is this knowledge… is it about Tywin?” she asked fearfully.

Jon looked surprised by her question, “No, Sansa… it is about me, and no one else.”

“Will you at least tell me what it pertains to? You have me worried now, Jon. Is it better to leave me with secrets or leave me with trepidation?”

Jon shook his head but answered, “It pertains to my birth – to who my parents were.”

Sansa felt her mouth fall open, “Your _parents_? You mean your _mother_ … you’ve always known who your father is… my father… Ned Stark.”

Jon shook his head, dejected.

“Are you saying you’re not my brother? But Jon, you have the Stark look. You and Arya bear uncanny resemblance. You are the spitting image of father and Uncle Benjen.”

Jon ran a hand down his face; Sansa could see the truth burning to get out, but he spoke with conviction, “I’ll say no more, and I’ll thank you not to inquire further.”

Sansa wracked her brain to explain how her brother could look so much like father but not be his whelp.

“At least tell me where you obtained this knowledge, and if it’s even credible.”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut, “Lord Howland Reed, and I didn’t believe it, or not fully, until a few… until more recently.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes, sensing the truth was within her grasp, “Until four days ago – the dragon pits.”

Jon’s eyes flung up to her, confirming her guess even if his mouth did not voice affirmation.

_Four days ago in the dragon pit Jon was together with all the Lannisters – Tywin, Tyrion, Jaime… he and Tyrion shared a connection with the dragons… But Jon is dark of hair, more like the Baratheons..._

Then another thought struck her, seemingly out of nowhere… _If Ned wasn’t Jon’s father, it had to be someone he was in contact with, or else how would he have come to possess the man’s child?_ _King Robert was said to have sired many bastards, all dark of hair. Perhaps he sired a bastard with a Lannister woman – Genna? Or one of Tywin’s cousins?_

_But then how did Jon come to have the Stark look? Dark hair, gray eyes, muscular frame…_

_Like Sandor…_

Sansa felt her heart race; Sandor wasn’t old enough to sire Jon – he’d have only been about two and ten when Jon was born… but Gregor… Gregor is several years older than Sandor. Gregor fought in Robert’s Rebellion… he raped Elia Martell then killed her.

_Or what if he didn’t kill her? What if she was kept alive for some reason? Is this what Tyrion was referring to? Did Tywin keep Elia alive after the war was won? Did she bear Gregor’s bastard and Ned, out of compassion, saved the child by claiming it as his own son?_

Sansa realized the timing of this was not right – it would bring Jon into the world almost nine months too late. Jon was born just as the war was winding down, just after Aerys was killed by Ser Jaime.

_Where was father during that period? He’d left the capital to save his sister, but where did he go?_

Sansa had once heard her father crying to her mother that he’d failed his sister Lyanna; that he and Howland Reed fought to get to her, but they arrived too late. As a child, Sansa was frightened by the idea of her beloved father arriving mere minutes too late to save his sister, and she never wanted to hear more of the story, lest he describe the manner in which Lyanna had died.

_Howland Reed…_

The name echoed in Sansa’s mind. The man who’d been with Ned and Lyanna in the end… Lyanna who had been kidnapped and raped by Rhaegar Targaryen – the event that allegedly started the war, even if Robert had plenty of other good reason to despise King Aerys… So Lord Reed was with Ned and Lyanna at the end of the war, around the time Jon would have been born… and Lord Reed is also the one who told Jon of his true parentage.

Sansa stood abruptly, stealing Jon’s attention away from the cup of ale he’d been staring into for long minutes.

“You are not my brother, but my cousin,” Sansa said with certainty. Jon’s eyes widened.

“You are Lyanna’s son… which means you are Rhaegar’s son…” She didn’t look to Jon for confirmation, she somehow knew her theory was true beyond a shadow of a doubt.

“And you didn’t want to tell me because, as a male child of Rhaegar, even a bastard, some would argue you have a stronger claim to the throne than Daenerys – Rhaegar’s sister… the throne which my grandson by law now sits…”

Sansa sat down, spellbound, and Jon fell to his knees in front of her, “Sansa – you _cannot_ tell anyone. I beg you. I do not want the throne; I do not want to be a Targaryen.”

“The dragon,” Sansa whispered, “It came to you because you are a dragon yourself.”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut again but nodded, “I felt it, Sansa. Like the connection I feel with Ghost. I could feel its fear give way to peace. It called to me, Sansa… in a way I can’t explain. Perhaps the way a mother can sense her child’s emotions… I only knew when I felt it, I knew it was true what Lord Reed said… and in that moment I couldn’t care, because I felt at home… but as the realization sunk in…”

“You realized the implications of the truth.”

Jon nodded weakly, “Please, Sansa…”

“Your secret is safe with me, Jon. But you must realize that if there were those that wanted to see a Targaryen on the throne… if there were those who were ready to support Daenerys, it would be a threat to not just King Tommen, but also to my husband, my goodsons, myself, and my daughter. Do you hear what I’m saying, Jon?”

Jon’s lips pursed but he nodded again, “If that day comes, I will not abandon you, Sansa. Though it would not be easy to prove my claim. Only Lord Reed is still alive to attest to my birth… Daenerys certainly looks the part more than I do,” Jon smiled sadly.

Sansa clasped his hands, realizing now how confusing and painful all these revelations must be to Jon, “You are part wolf, part dragon, which means you are stronger than either. And I don’t care if we don’t share a father, I count you as my brother. Not my cousin, not my half-brother, my _brother…_ just as Robb and Arya and Bran did all those years ago; I only wish I came to the realization sooner.”

Jon shook his head, “You waste too much time thinking about the past. You’ve become an amazing woman, Sansa… father and Lady Catelyn would be proud. Since they’re not here to see you, I’ll just have to be proud enough to make up for it.”

His smile this time was earnest, and Sansa couldn’t help but return the gesture, and the sentiment behind it.

**Tywin**

No amount of work could distract Tywin from the truth nagging for his attention these past few days. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had changed. The suspicion and fear that had nearly driven him mad thirty years ago were rearing their ugly heads, and Tywin was powerless to suppress them.

Seeing Tyrion pet the beast as if it were as innocent as a newborn puppy stirred up memories that Tywin had relegated to the deepest corner of his mind, but that no doubt manifested unwittingly in the disdain Tywin always harbored for his dwarf son. Tywin was not ignorant of the theories that surrounded the relationship between father and son – that Tywin resented his son for killing his mother to enter this world; that Tywin resented his son for being born a dwarf – an unprecedented example of a Lannister that was not a perfect physical specimen. But no one – _no one_ – knew the greatest reason for Tywin’s grudge: that he could not look at Tyrion without finding traces of the dwarf’s father. His _real_ father.

Tywin’s mind wandered now back to those dark days… Joanna was never herself after the Anniversary Tourney held in honor of Aerys’ tenth year as King. Aerys had spoken crudely to Joanna during the festivities, so much so that Tywin tried to resign his position as Hand of the King. It took nearly a decade for Tywin to finally resign and return to Casterly Rock, but it took only nine months for Joanna to perish as she fought to bring Tyrion into the world. When Tyrion was born a dwarf with one dark eye and one green eye, hair part blond and part black, Tywin knew the reason. Aerys’ own grandmother, Betha Blackwood, had black hair and eyes, and some Targaryens were born with purple eyes so dark they nearly looked black. Yet on the Lannister side there was no documented history of anyone with such dark features in the family tree. Tywin himself was the spitting image of his father Tytos – blond hair, green eyes. Tywin’s mother, Jeyne Marbrand, had light brown hair that turned nearly blond in the sun. Going back generations, everyone born with the name Lannister had blond hair and green eyes; the seed of those they mixed with always submitted to those traits.

And yet Tyrion was an uncanny physical manifestation of the fact that his biological parents were incongruous even in the eyes of the Gods. His deformity was proof that he was not a pure-bred Lannister, but a corruption of Lannister blood by that incest-riddled blood of the dragons.

But just as Tywin could never love Tyrion because of the part of him that represented Aerys II, he could never fully hate him because of the part that was all Joanna – kind-hearted, sharp-minded.

The truth that was revealed in the dragon pits was now eating Tywin from the inside out, tainting all his other thoughts like a poison. Joanna never confessed to Tywin that Aerys had raped her, but he knew it to be true – Aerys had an obsession with Joanna that he barely tried to hide. Tywin’s failure to prevent the defilement of his own wife became a source of guilt that waxed and waned like the moon over the years.

His thoughts turned, unbidden, to his current wife and daughter. A similar fate befalling Sansa would no doubt shred Tywin’s sanity to pieces. The idea of raising another child that wasn’t his made him feel physically sick.

 _Some of your men are in love with her…_ Daenerys had said, trying to prod Tywin’s jealous streak. But there was nothing but Tully and Lannister blood in little Joelyn; no brown hair of Garlan Tyrell, or slate gray eyes of the Hound…

_Your own sons admire her greatly…_

Tywin sat forward, recognizing that his anger over the confirmation of what was done to Joanna was poisoning his thoughts, but unable to stop the poison from spreading – and, perhaps, not wanting to…

Sansa’s own words now invaded his mind – words meant to taunt Tywin with jealousy after Sansa learned of his scheme with the _imposter_ Arya Stark…

_I get the feeling that either Jaime or Tyrion would gladly step into your shoes. Jaime seems so much friendlier now that Cersei is dead._

_Jaime… step into your shoes… so much friendlier now…_

The words reverberated in his skull as images sped through Tywin’s mind’s eye. Jaime taking Sansa on a walk through the gardens… Jaime making Sansa laugh during family dinners… Jaime looking at Sansa with open admiration when she was donned in finery during the royal wedding, then her own wedding…

Jaime and Sansa dancing during those weddings…

Jaime and Sansa conversing alone in the sitting room after Cersei attacked her at court…

Jaime falling on his knees and burying his head in Sansa’s waist after Cersei died…

Jaime and Sansa standing vigil together over Cersei’s body…

Even events Tywin wasn’t present for became instantly seared into his brain… Jaime accompanying Sansa by ship back to King’s Landing while Tywin marched north… Sansa tending to Jaime when he fell ill… Jaime standing by Sansa’s side to face Euron Greyjoy… Jaime accompanying Sansa on outings to the shelters… 

_How could I be so blind… so foolish…?_

Sansa was one of the most beautiful women in the realm; Jaime one of the handsomest men… They both smiled freely, laughed openly, forgave easily… Yes, Jaime had rejected the opportunity to take Sansa as his wife, but that was before Cersei had died. And since Cersei’s death, other than Jaime’s initial breakdown, he seemed relatively unscathed.

_Was it because Sansa offered him the comfort only a lover can give?_

No… no, that could not be. Tywin felt a connection to Sansa. She confessed her love to him. When they coupled, it was filled with passion and longing, like they were the only man and woman in the world.

 _Then she is a practiced liar, which makes her even more dangerous!_ Cersei spat, a look in her eyes that said, ‘I told you so’.

Cersei… for all the forgiveness Sansa readily extended to Tywin and Jaime, and others who had wronged her even if by merely turning a blind eye to her suffering – and yet she could never forgive Cersei. Sansa made sure Tywin saw the worst sides of his daughter. Sansa admitted to verbally taunting Cersei that day in the throne room. Was it really because of Cersei’s misdeeds toward the girl, or did she see Cersei as a threat – competition for a mate?

And why did Cersei despise Sansa so much in the first place? Did she see something in the way Jaime looked at the girl – perhaps born the moment Jaime first saw Sansa at Winterfell, when she was barely a woman?

And all Sansa’s insistence on Tywin being truthful to her… was it a clever ruse to make him feel more worried about being completely transparent with her, so he’d never wonder if she was being transparent with him?

The very room was spinning on its axis. His heartbeat thumped like a drum behind his eyes and within his ears. Half of him screamed that this was madness, that after all these years, Aerys was finding a way to taunt Tywin from beyond the grave… the other half ordered him to find his wife and son and demand the truth.

_The truth…_

Before Tywin could rise to his feet there was a knock on his door, and the very subject of his mad musings entered, offering a sweet smile that did not meet her eyes.

**Sansa**

Promising Jon to keep his secret was easy enough; facing Tywin now that she possessed this knowledge was quite different. She came to her husband that afternoon in hopes of talking with him about whatever had been troubling him. She wondered, after learning the truth of Jon’s parentage, if Tywin had suspicions of his own. Seeing Jon with the dragon Rhaegal, coincidentally named after Jon’s true father, would have surely struck Tywin as odd. Sansa recalled the way he had stormed out of the dragon pits that day without a word. Had he suspected right then and there that Jon was a Targaryen? Was he already plotting ways to rid himself of Jon without Sansa knowing about it?

When Sansa walked into Tywin’s solar, she offered a smile, but it faded when she saw the look on Tywin’s face. His eyes were blown wide, his face unusually pale, and a bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

“Husband,” she summoned the courage to speak, “You look unwell. Should I summon Maester Jeran?”

He shook his head slowly, his expression unchanging, “Maester Jeran cannot help me, wife.”

His cryptic words and the cold way they were delivered sent a shiver down her spine. She clasped her hands in front of her, they were already clammy.

“You look nervous, wife.”

“You look agitated, my lord… not yourself.”

“Oh, on the contrary, I am feeling every bit the Great Lion today.”

She raised her eyes to meet him, wondering why he was speaking in vaguery. It was not like him.

“Has something happened? Is this about Daenerys?”

Tywin rose so suddenly Sansa flinched. He moved around his desk and stood in front of her, peering down at her until she could only drop her eyes.

“I don’t know if something happened, but you do.”

She looked up at him again, eyes wide. _How can he know? Does he have someone spying on me? Or on Jon?_

“You’ll need to be more specific, husband,” her voice wavered.

“How about more _direct_? Are you keeping a secret from me, Sansa?”

Her cheeks felt hot, but whether it was shame or anger dominating her emotions, she knew not, “You have spies watching me? Or him?” she spat.

Tywin grabbed her upper arms tightly, his lips lifting into a sneer, “No, but apparently I _should_.”

His words made no sense… the conversation with Jon took place just a few hours ago, how could he already know? Unless it was simply suspicion based on the events in the dragon pit…

“I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“You fool, you just admitted there’s a ‘him’… you know precisely what I’m asking you!”

“I don’t!” Sansa’s voice sounded too childlike, too shrill; she hated keeping a secret from Tywin, but she promised Jon…

“Don’t _lie_ to me!” his voice boomed in her ears. Surely the guards heard, but Sansa knew they’d not intercede in a _lover’s quarrel._

“I’m not! I… I can’t Tywin, please!”

“Can’t what? Tell me the truth?” he shook her angrily. Sansa had never seen this side of him; Tywin never lost control, but Sansa knew that was exactly what was happening.

“Please, Tywin, you’re hurting me!” she begged.

“Good, because you’re hurting me!” his words came through gritted teeth, and she could indeed see the hurt behind the anger. This she could work with…

“I’m sorry, Tywin. I swear I don’t mean to… I don’t want to, but…”

“But you won’t tell me because you’re protecting him, is that it?”

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. _He knows…_ Sansa clung to any rational thought she could find…

_He hasn’t hurt Daenerys, even though she raised an army against him… he won’t hurt Jon, either. Jon will hate me for telling Tywin, but Jon doesn’t know Tywin like I do… I have to tell him before this gets worse._

Sansa nodded to his last question, steeling herself to tell him everything, but her affirmation seemed to only incense him further. He pulled her toward him until her cheek was against his mouth, “How long?”

She shook her head, “Only a few hours, I swear it…”

His grip tightened, “I told you not to fucking lie to me, Sansa, but it seems I won’t get the truth from you. Perhaps I should fuck it out of you.”

“I swear, Tywin—”

Her words were swallowed by his kiss, as harsh and punishing as his words. She didn’t open her mouth and was certain she’d pay for it with bruised lips.

He would not be dissuaded, his hands left her arms to clasp her face, allowing her to push against his chest, but it was futile.

He pulled his lips off just long enough to growl a question into the small space between them, “Is it him you think of when you fuck me?”

“What?!”

“The sister-fucker…”

_What?! He thinks I’m fucking Jon?!_

“The man without honor… the Kingslayer…”

“ _What?!”_

“Better than the man who drowned all those people in the mines… the man who killed your mother and brother… the man whose heart is dead…” his lips pressed back into hers, and this time he did not relent. He spun them around and pushed her against the desk, pressing himself against her until she felt his manhood against her belly. She tried speaking but her words were muffled by his mouth. One hand now moved to clamp at the back of her head, while the other gripped painfully into her hip.

_He thinks I fucked Jaime, and he means to punish me…_

Knowing what she must do to end his frenzy, Sansa pulled her right hand away from his chest and dug her nails into his neck hard, feeling the skin break.

“Fuck!” he hissed, backing away and clamping his hand over his neck. Sansa took the opportunity to slap him as hard as she could on his cheek.

“I haven’t slept with Jaime – or anyone but you! I don’t know what madness has taken over your senses but so help me, Tywin…” she reached behind her, finding Tywin’s quill and grasping it in a clenched fist.

His spell was only broken momentarily, the anger quickly returned to his eyes, “You going to stab me with that, _wife_?”

“If I must,” she replied, trying to sound brave, and failing.

Before she could react, his hand darted out and clutched her wrist, so hard she feared her bones might break. Tywin plucked the makeshift weapon from her hand and whipped it across the room.

He once again pulled her close, “You’d have done better scratching my eyes out with your sharp claws, wife. You’re a wolf, remember?”

“I haven’t betrayed you, Tywin, I swear…”

“Then what secret are you keeping? Who are you protecting? What have you done for only a few hours?”

Fools courage overtook her, “Fuck you! It’s none of your damned business.”

“Everything’s my business in this city, and in this marriage.”

“It has nothing to do with our marriage!”

“Then tell me!”

“Fuck off!”

“Who are you protecting? _Ser_ Garlan?”

She tightened her jaw, refusing to meet his eyes… he still thought she was being unfaithful to him, and it stung.

“The Hound?”

She stared only at a button on his doublet.

“Tyrion?”

_So help me, Gods, the next word out of his mouth, I’m going to hit him again._

“Your brother?”

Her eyes snapped up, too late for her to notice her blunder. Tywin’s head craned back as her cheeks flushed. He looked confused instead of angry. His head cocked to one side, “You learned something from your brother today… and you won’t tell me?”

She closed her eyes but nodded. Her anger gave way to guilt once more, “I don’t wish to keep anything from you, but it is not my secret to tell. Punish me how you see fit but leave my brother out of it.”

Tywin continued to look dazed, but Sansa feared his temper could return without notice. She took the opportunity to leave without another word and went straight to Joelyn’s nursery. She didn’t need to voice a command for the nurse to leave the room. Sansa walked to the crib, peering down at her sleeping infant. The vision brought her peace but too quickly it fractured as the events of the day caught up with her. She sunk to her knees, tears already spilling down her cheeks.

**Tywin**

Tywin did not seek out his wife the night of their argument. Nor did he the next day. Nor the next. They saw each other in passing once, but Sansa offered only a dip of her head in greeting. Her eyes were vacant and cold as they’d been when she stood before Joffrey, reciting the perfect, empty words that would keep his violence at bay, even if only momentarily.

On the third day, there was a small council meeting to attend, and the idea of facing her made Tywin so ill that he couldn’t eat his morning meal.

As he sat in the council room, he realized it wasn’t just Sansa who would be difficult to face; he also had a hard time meeting the eyes of his sons. When he looked at Tyrion, he saw the Mad King looking back. When he looked at Jaime, he saw a reminder of the accusation he threw at Sansa. How could he have thought not just his wife but also his son had betrayed him? He’d presided over murder trials during which the accused claimed to be taken over by momentary madness. Had he suffered from such an affliction? At the time, his suspicion seemed so well-founded; now he looked back and saw only a dutiful son and his caring goodmother. Is this how it started for King Aerys? Had his madness manifested in brief ways, that were relatively harmless, then progressed to burning people alive and raping his own wife.

_Raping his own wife…_

“My lord?”

“Hmm? Yes?”

Ser Garlan looked around the table awkwardly, and Tywin realized he had missed words that were directed at him.

Garlan cleared his throat, taking responsibility for Tywin not hearing him, “Apologies, my lord; I was speaking of my plan to model our new ships after the superior design of the Ironborn vessels, if this plan has King Tommen’s support.”

Tywin nodded once, “It does. They may be barbaric in some ways, but they know their ships.”

Tywin’s eyes flitted around the table. Tyrion, Jaime, and Kevan were appraising him curiously. Sansa met his eyes with no trace of emotion, almost looking bored.

Jaime provided his update on the state of the army. Lord Mace spoke of the preparations for winter, with Tyrion chiming in. Tyrion spoke of the plans to immediately repay Dorne, the Reach, and the Westerlands for the donations made during the plague, though Tywin knew this would mean making the crown’s coffers dangerously low. Varys had no news to report; he was mainly tasked with listening for any indications that the people were looking to rally around Daenerys Targaryen.

“Perhaps ‘mother of dragons’ sounds less appealing than ‘mother of the people’,” Varys stated with a playful smile.

“Pardon?” Tywin asked.

“That’s the moniker our dear Lady Sansa has earned among the smallfolk. The children in Flea Bottom liken her to the Mother incarnate. The younger orphans look forward to visits from ‘Mother Sansa’. This has been going on for some months, my lord, but since this is the first council meeting that has both you and your lady wife present since before you headed north, I thought it would be a fine time to share the news.”

If Sansa was pleased by the compliment, she did not show it, even as others around the table – chiefly Jaime, Tyrion, Kevan, and Garlan, sent smiles in her direction.

Kevan spoke up, “Even with the plague setting things back, crime has not increased. The people have faith the Crown will not abandon them as winter nears… and I dare say there is not just an appreciation for the Crown, but a healthy fear that those who commit crimes will be dealt with swiftly. Considering everything we have faced, I believe relations between the Crown and its subjects are as healthy as they’ve been in recent memory.”

All eyes turned to Sansa now, clearly expecting acknowledgement. She finally looked around, offering a hesitant smile, “I am only fulfilling the duties of my role.”

Tyrion snorted, “Come now, Lady Sansa, your humility is well known, bask in the admiration for once!”

Sansa nodded at him politely, “Thank you, my lords, for the recognition, though it should be spread amongst all of us in this room – and many beyond it.”

Tywin cleared his throat, sensing his wife was uncomfortable with the attention, “The Royal Wedding will take place in a fortnight. Per King Tommen and Lady Margaery’s wishes, the festivities have been scaled back. They recognize a lavish affair would be in poor taste given the recent hardships and the impending winter. Lady Margaery insists that part of the savings be used to sponsor smaller celebratory feasts throughout the capital. Certain inns and taverns will be serving the main course, free of charge, on a first come, first served basis. The leftovers of the wedding feast will also be donated to the city’s shelters.”

Mace Tyrell nodded smugly at the display of his daughter’s generosity.

“The last matter to discuss is the fate of our current guest, Lady Daenerys. While King Tommen would be within his rights to demand her execution, he has chosen to extend her mercy, hoping that act, along with the recent alliances forged in the North and the Stormlands, will cement an era of peace for the Seven Kingdoms. Further, everyone around this table has seen a sampling of what bears down on us from north of the wall. I’m not yet convinced this will threaten anyone _south_ of the wall, but I recognize the possibility. Should Jon Snow’s fears come to pass, Lady Daenerys will have opportunity to prove her allegiance by fighting alongside us. Lady Sansa will resume her communication with the Night’s Watch. Jon Snow plans to sail to Karhold within two moons. For his safety, he will be assigned a legion of guards who will help him travel to Last Hearth, where the Umbers have agreed to host him. His presence will ensure we have an undistorted knowledge of the affairs to the far north.”

When Tywin paused, Ser Garlan took it upon himself to weigh in, “While we have all seen this chained _wight_ … I can personally attest that these creatures fight with the fervor of an angry bear. I realize the Wall makes for a stout defense, but should these creatures make it over or through the Wall, I would implore all of you not to take the threat lightly.”

A tip of his head was Tywin’s only reaction. The meeting was called to a close.

**Sansa**

“Ser Garlan,” Sansa called after the knight as she followed a few paces behind him in the hall leading from the small council chambers.

“Lady Sansa,” the knight turned around with a smile, “I have been hoping to speak with you; it seems congratulations are in order on many fronts. Most notably, the birth of your healthy baby girl, and of course, all your successes while we were away. I’m glad to see you back to health!”

Sansa winced, “I don’t feel particularly _successful_ , but I thank you anyway. I fear I am belated in offering words to you, as well – though I fear they’ll be less pleasant.”

Garlan broke her gaze a moment to nod at Tywin who walked by, having just exited the council room. Tywin spared not a glance at Sansa.

“As I was saying… I’m lax in offering my condolences on your loss. Lady Olenna was always kind to me, even when others were not. She was a clever woman with a good heart… she was a great lady.”

Garlan smiled at Sansa’s characterization, “She was a fierce woman, indeed. I dare to wonder if she wouldn’t have lived another twenty years had the fever not claimed her!”

Sansa returned his smile, “She might have outlived us all, Ser Garlan.”

“If it was only a matter of willpower, she would have, my lady!”

Sansa allowed herself to chuckle for the first time in days. Olenna Tyrell was a woman without equal, and though Sansa suspected she was always scheming, she could never find it in her to mind.

“It’s a rather warm day, my lady. I’m craving fresh air… would you care to accompany me to the gardens?”

Sansa bit her lower lip, “I appreciate the invitation, Ser, but I must decline. I am still not quite at full capacity, and I must return to my daughter.”

Garlan tipped his head respectfully, “Of course my lady; forgive me for sometimes thinking you’re invincible.”

His words were an odd compliment, and Sansa wondered if there was some resentment behind them after he’d lost his grandmother, a cousin, and his own sister seemed to have become weakened by the fever. Sansa also thought of his wife, Leonette Fossaway, who was so delicate of constitution that she couldn’t tolerate the air in King’s Landing.

A parting smile from Garlan assured her that his words and sentiment were genuine, but on the way back to the Tower of the Hand she heard Sandor mumble something about not trusting a man with such white teeth. Andre laughed in response, “You just don't like him because he’s one of the few men in the realm who might be able to best you with a sword.”

Sandor halted and turned, eliciting more chuckles from Andre, “I said _‘might’_ …”

More inaudible grumbles came from Sandor’s throat, and Sansa could only roll her eyes, “You two are good practice for the day I have a pair of unruly sons.”

“You already have a pair of unruly sons, my lady!” Andre chirped.

_Hard to think of them as sons when my husband accuses me of fucking one of them._

As they crossed the courtyard, Sandor’s tone grew serious, “Fuck off a minute,” he jerked his head toward Andre. Andre huffed but dropped several paces back.

“Talk, little bird,” Sandor spoke without looking at her or breaking his stride, though he slowed considerably.

“About what?”

“About whether there’s a lion that needs to be put down.”

Sansa felt herself blush, “You heard our argument?”

“Aye, raised voices, few words… figured you’d get past it but the chill between you could freeze the Narrow Sea… You save this blasted city, give him three dragons and a healthy daughter – oh and don’t die in the process – what could he have to be angry over?”

It wasn’t proper to share details of their fight, but Sansa was in dire need of a sympathetic ear. An ear that belonged to someone who could keep his mouth shut.

“It’s nothing serious,” she lied, “and you won’t ply me for details, but let’s just say my husband was consumed by a fit of jealousy, or rather, suspicion.”

“Over the Tyrell whelp?”

“I said you won’t ply me for details!” Sansa snipped back.

“Fair enough. So what’s the problem?”

“What do you mean? That _is_ the problem. He doesn’t trust me.”

Sandor snorted, “He trusts you to rule his kingdom in his stead. He trusts you to an important position… to be on the small council. He trusts you not to conspire with your Northmen. He trusts you enough to take your word on the dragon bitch – you know she’d by dead by now if it weren’t for you, no matter that the Imp is half in love with her…”

“He is?”

Sandor shrugged, “Maybe just wants to fuck her, who knows? Don’t change the subject. The Old Lion trusts you more than I’ve ever seen him trust anyone, save his brother…”

“Well he accused me of being unfaithful to him. I call that a lack of trust.”

Sandor barked out a laugh, “I call that being a man.”

“I disagree.”

“That’s because you don’t have a cock.”

“Sandor!”

“What? You do have a cock?” he teased.

Sansa’s cheeks burned, “Forget talking about this. You’re no help. You can’t possibly understand…”

“Oh I can understand better than you can.”

“I doubt that.”

Sandor shook his head, “The Old Lion is… well, he’s old. You’re young. He’s mean. You’re sweet. Men like Garlan Tyrell flash their pretty smiles at you all day long, eyes lingering places they shouldn’t. Most you don’t even notice because you’re too busy thinking about whatever it is that goes through that pretty head of yours all day. He was gone for months, leaving you in the care of scoundrels like me and Brax, your lewd talking goodson, your dashing knight of a goodson… he comes back to hear _all_ the great things Lady Sansa did while he was away… how the whole city loves you…”

Sansa felt suddenly ashamed, “I _understand_ , but he could have talked to me rationally, calmly.”

_He did try talking calmly until you acted cagey because of Jon’s secret…_

“Calm? Rational?” Sandor barked, though he kept his volume low, “You want a eunuch like Varys or a man like Tywin Lannister?”

“He didn’t have to yell at me!”

“Aye, I’m not pleased with that, though if you were my wife, I’d never let you leave our chambers for fear of another man stealing you away, so I’m in no position to judge.”

“How romantic,” Sansa muttered.

“You married a powerful man, little bird. And far as I can tell, you’ve won every battle. Perhaps you need to let him win one.”

Sansa turned to her large protector, “Where did all this wisdom come from?”

Sandor shrugged, “How the fuck should I know?”

She rolled her eyes; as quickly as it came, it was gone.

They had reached the Tower of the Hand and made their way to the nursery. Sansa had only been apart from Jo for a couple hours, yet it felt like an eternity. Shireen greeted her, “You’re just in time, I was about to summon the nurse – I think she’s hungry.”

“I can tell, because I’m _leaking,_ ” Sansa snorted, realizing too late her words were far from proper. “Apologies, Shireen, for my crude language. Though perhaps someday you’ll have your own babe and be able to sympathize.”

Shireen smiled through a blush, “I’ll give you some privacy, Sansa.”

Sansa nursed and burped her babe, an act which she cherished. Feeling the start of a headache was inching up her neck, she ordered a hot bath. It was delivered promptly, and Sansa wasted no time in sinking into the tub while a full and happy Jo slept in the bassinette nearby.

Lowering herself underwater, Sansa relished the feeling of heat surrounding her neck and temples. She wished she could stay under longer and pondered that, with a small piece of pipe or tubing, she could breathe through her mouth underwater.

When she came up for air, she realized how dark the room had become. It was too early for the sun to begin its descent, and a glance to the window showed that dark clouds had formed over the city. It rarely rained in King’s Landing, but when it did there was usually thunder, lightning, and gusting winds. Sansa did not want to miss it; she’d always loved thunderstorms.

Quickly drying, Sansa scooped up Jo – still sound asleep – and went to lie in her bed with the balcony curtains drawn wide. She had a perfect view of the sky if she laid horizontally across the bed.

Sure enough, within a few minutes Sansa could hear rumbles of thunder in the distance that became gradually louder. The first bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, so beautiful and powerful it left Sansa’s hairs on end. After a few minutes another bolt flashed within her view. The storm was indeed strong, and the booms eventually woke Jo up. Sansa held her to her chest, bouncing her lightly. Her crying stopped but she still seemed fussy. Holding her close, Sansa hummed against her velvet head, a song that she hadn’t heard nor sung in years, but that came unbidden to her mind now, with a memory that she also thought was lost to the passage of time.

> _“I’m scared Sansa,”_ Bran’s feet ran full speed across her bedroom, as if there were monsters nipping at his heels.
> 
> Sansa held up her blankets, _“It’s just a thunderstorm.”_

In truth, Bran was ordinarily much braver than his older sister. He scaled the castle walls fearlessly after trees became too easy a challenge. He was more like Arya in this regard, yet he had a delicate side to him that Arya lacked; a sensitivity to the teasing of their siblings. Sansa, too, was sensitive, which is why she was frequently the target of their pranks and japes. Of course, it didn’t help her cause that she lived with her head in the clouds, fancying herself the perfect lady – perfect at singing, perfect at curtsying, perfect at putting neat little stitches into delicate fabrics. Though her mother taught her well in other areas, Sansa never realized the skills she’d someday need were so different from those she focused on cultivating. The Hound was the first person to tell her that her pretty words might as well be farts in the breeze, yet she clung to them like a piece of driftwood in the middle of the ocean. They were all she had – manners and pretty words. Curtsies and courtesies.

> _“Nan says it’s the Gods showing their disappointment in us. She says it means they know what we did, and we should confess to appease them!”_
> 
> _“And do you have something to confess?”_
> 
> _“No…”_
> 
> _“Bran…?”_
> 
> _“No!”_
> 
> _“Well then I suppose the Gods are mad at someone else; you have no cause to worry. That person is probably confessing his or her sins as we speak, and the storm will end in no time.”_
> 
> Bran chewed his lip, _“What is they don’t confess?”_
> 
> _“Then I suppose the storm will rage on until they do.”_
> 
> _“Forever?”_
> 
> Sansa had shrugged, _“If they never confess...”_

Jo fussed again, and Sansa realized her humming had ceased. She resumed the tune.

> _“Well... maybe I should confess **something…**_ _even if it’s not what the Gods are mad about, they might appreciate it and show us mercy.”_
> 
> Sansa smiled against her little brother’s mussy hair, _“Sound logic.”_
> 
> _“Hmm… what can I confess? Oh, I’ve got it… Arya and I rode Hodor around pretending he was a giant who was taking us north of the Wall. Mother said it was disrespectful, but Hodor didn’t mind. But perhaps Mother was right…”_
> 
> _“Well, Mother **is** right, but it seems no harm was done. I think Hodor likes when you and Arya play with him.”_
> 
> _“You do?”_
> 
> _“Yes. Hodor is a large man but he has a gentle heart.”_
> 
> _“That’s what I said! And he’s never hurt us, but I think if someone else tried to, he’d protect us.”_
> 
> _“I’m not sure, Bran. I don’t know how much Hodor understands about what is going on. But I’m sure in his heart he wants to protect you.”_
> 
> _“Do you think Hodor knows what love is, Sansa?”_
> 
> Sansa's hand froze where it stroked Bran’s arm through the blankets. It was such a strange question for a child to ask, and it showed that behind Bran’s sometimes reckless behavior there was a certain thoughtfulness.
> 
> _“I don’t know. Perhaps he feels it but doesn’t have the words to define it.”_
> 
> Bran nodded and yawned, _“Of course! You’re so smart Sansa.”_
> 
> _“So are you, Bran. My smart and brave little brother!”_
> 
> _“My smart and brave big sister!”_
> 
> Sansa laughed, _“I’m not brave, Bran, but I thank you for saying so.”_
> 
> _“You are brave! You’re not afraid of the thunder.”_
> 
> Sansa smiled, for once taking pride in being braver than Bran in at least one regard. Even Arya had been afraid of thunderstorms for a time, though she was too proud to ever come into Sansa’s room seeking comfort.
> 
> _“You know, Bran… I think your confession worked… the thunder sounds distant, and the rain isn’t pelting the window anymore.”_
> 
> When he didn’t respond Sansa looked down and found him sound asleep.

The pleasant memory left a bitter emptiness in her belly. That storm had been a year before King Robert came to Winterfell, looking for a Hand and a gooddaughter. He left with both, even as her parents were wary.

_What if I had refused the match to Joffrey? Would my father still have gone to the capital to be Hand?_

Sansa thought not; her father didn’t want the position – that much was clear even to a young, starry-eyed Sansa. But all she cared about at the time was getting her prince…

_A monster hidden behind a pretty face…_

Living in the decadence of King’s Landing…

_And its reek of shit…_

Becoming a queen…

_Realizing queens are simply well-dressed pawns…_

Thunder boomed loudly, echoing through her bedchamber, an irrefutable answer to her question… No, if Sansa hadn’t gone to King’s Landing, her father wouldn’t have, either. There would have been no war… or if there was, her father would be alive to lead them through those days. He who fought in Robert’s Rebellion, he who knew battle, knew war, and knew that war should always be a last resort. Why did Robb not learn this lesson? Why did he not try for diplomacy? Father was executed – there was no undoing that. He could have offered a marriage alliance, offered his allegiance to Joffrey… the idea was not appealing, yet how many lives would have been spared?

_And now they’re all dead because I wanted to be a queen._

It was no consolation that part of her aspiration was to do good in the world… to be loved and praised because she was generous and graceful and kind…

Thunder cracked as the room was illuminated in bluish white light. It seemed as if the storm was hovering directly over this tower. Jo began crying again, and the cries combined with the storm became a deafening chorus that would not stop until it got what it came for.

**Tywin**

As if he weren’t distracted enough, a fucking storm had to rage outside, and it felt like a cruel jape – taunting Tywin by echoing and amplifyinh the emotions within his own chest. Would he get no silence? No peace? His heart felt like a ship sailing through a storm. Or perhaps his heart _was_ the storm.

Sansa had shut herself in, had shut him out, and it was all his fault. Under ordinary circumstances the secret she was keeping on her brother’s behalf would drive him mad with curiosity. But he couldn’t find the energy or desire to care about that. Let him have his secret, so long as it wasn’t that he was planning a coup against King Tommen.

No, Tywin’s thoughts centered on only one thing… _you accused your wife of sleeping with your son. You grasped her arms so tightly, her face so tightly, that she couldn’t escape you. You pressed your cock against her, you threatened to fuck the truth out of her. If she hadn’t clawed your neck, you’d have raped your wife._

_Raped your wife._

_Raped. Your. Wife._

Like Aerys had, all those decades ago. Perhaps Aerys really had found a way to torture Tywin from whatever part of the Seven Hells he now occupied. He infused Tywin with a dose of his own madness, so Tywin would rape his wife, just like Aerys used to do to Rhaella. Just like Aerys did to…

Trying to work was futile. Tywin ascended the stairs to their apartments, entering his bedchamber, which was dark due to the storm. But the dark suited him; there was no light being cast on his sins and failings. The storm had seemed to intensify with each step, and Tywin ran to pull shut the balcony door which had swung open, letting in gusts of rain, before collapsing into a chair.

Tywin didn’t believe in bad luck or in blood magic, but it was impossible to not feel like he was living under a curse. A curse that would see him become everything he despised – a jealous man, an abusive husband, a sloth who stopped working in the middle of the day because he was having a spat with his wife, or because there was a storm raging outside, or both.

He was slipping, and it all started when he met Sansa. Yet he couldn’t hate her for it any more than a drunk can hate the wine that offers him sweet escape even if followed by a crippling headache. She was the sweetness and the ache, and he was loathed to give up the former even at the price of the latter.

And like with a hangover this poison needed to be purged. Every discord they’d had in their marriage thus far was either caused or exacerbated by one withholding a truth from the other. Him not telling her of his ‘plan’ to wed her to Jaime. Her not telling him of her budding love for him. Him not telling her of his ruse with the fake Arya Stark. Her not telling him Jon’s secret, him not telling her his greatest shame.

Or perhaps it had nothing to do with Sansa at all… perhaps Tywin was being punished. Punished for all the people he’d killed, all the brutality that had taken place at his command… he despised Joffrey and his Kingsguard for what they’d done to Sansa, but hadn’t the Mountain and his men committed similar, perhaps even worse atrocities, in Tywin Lannister’s name? Hadn’t he ordered similar acts be committed against the opportunistic girl who Tyrion was fool enough to marry? Or perhaps he was being punished for killing his own grandson and king, then pinning it on a man who was not innocent, but innocent of that crime. Or punished for finding comfort in his daughter’s death. Punished for giving the approval to violate guest rights – a millennias-old moral code – to eliminate a great family, then marrying its last living heir only a couple months after she’d been brutalized by his own grandson.

Tywin stood up abruptly, suddenly aware of the grand scale of Sansa’s suffering. Her life had been a series of tortures and tragedies that would be enough to drive the most hardened warrior mad. Sansa should be huddled in a corner, rocking herself back and forth while drooling. She shouldn’t be helping to turn around an entire city, helping to broker peace accords between kingdoms at war, seeing the city through a plague while staving off invaders. Tywin felt like a fool, coward, and bastard for causing her any more distress than the Gods seemed to throw at her on a near-constant basis, just for their own sick amusement.

Tywin spun around, knowing he must find his wife immediately, but unsure where she'd be.

_Think!_

Her guards were outside her chambers when he came back from his solar, so she must be there. He ran through their shared bathing room, noticing the tub was there and filled with water, with Jo’s bassinette next to it but empty. Expecting her bedchamber door to push open, he collided with it.

_She locked me out…_

Not wanting to wake Jo if she was napping, Tywin only tapped lightly but there was no response. He ran back to his room, retrieving the key he kept in a desk drawer – the skeleton key that opened all the doors in the Hand’s apartments. Running back he unlocked Sansa’s door and pushed it open, finding a sight that called to mind the image he’d recently conjured of a crazed Sansa. She sat on the bed naked, Jo cradled to her chest, mumbling words that Tywin couldn’t make out over the raging storm.

Approaching softly he kneeled before wife and daughter to find Sansa’s eyes squeezed shut as if her very life depended on her blindness. Now he could hear her words, mumbled frantically and on constant repeat.

“I’m sorry… it’s all my fault… I’m sorry…”

“Sansa,” he moved to touch her arm, noticing the bruises where he’d clutched her a few days ago. His stomach rolled within his belly.

“Sansa,” he spoke again. Her chant continued.

Jo’s wails and the thunder outside created a cacophony that made it difficult to think. Tywin knew his child would not be calmed while her mother was in this state, so he tried to gently pry her from Sansa’s embrace. At his action, Sansa’s eyes snapped open, “No!” she shouted, “I can’t let her go. I won’t let her go so they can take her from me!”

Tywin’s blood instantly went cold. Had she truly gone mad? Was she imagining some foe surrounding her, threatening her?

“Sansa, no one is going to take Jo, I promise.”

“The Gods, Tywin, the Gods are going to take her like they take everyone from me!”

“Sansa—”

“No! Stop distracting me! Old Nan said if you confess your crimes the storm will stop and that’s how you know the Gods are appeased. It worked with Bran!”

Tywin managed to pull Jo away as Sansa dropped to her knees, leaning on the bed, and reciting every sin she’d ever committed – or at least those actions her sweet little mind thought were sins – seemingly unaware or unbothered by Tywin’s presence.

“I killed my family… I killed them all by coming to King’s Landing because I was selfish. I betrayed my father to Cersei because I was stupid. I lied… I lied all the time. I lied about Joffrey and it cost Lady her life. I’ve thought murderous thoughts, I’ve fantasized about killing, and I’ve rejoiced in deaths. I married a killer… I became a killer…”

She seemed at no risk of stopping. Tywin could only handle one woman at a time, so he brought Jo down the hall to the nursery, finding her wet nurse there. Though Sansa often tended to Jo herself, Tywin insisted the nurse live in the Tower full time so that she’d be available at a moment’s notice.

The woman seemed to sense something was wrong but knew better than to ask her lord. Tywin held Jo a few more seconds, helping to calm her somewhat, before handing her over and returning to his wife.

Sansa was now robed and standing near the balcony, “It worked!” she peeped gleefully, “The thunder is more distant. The storm is moving out to sea!”

Tywin shook his head as he approached her carefully, “Sansa… speak to me.”

“About what, husband?” she asked, eyes still fixed outside.

“About…” Tywin closed his eyes, searching for something to say, “Are you well?”

She turned to face him, smiling broadly, “I’m feeling so much better. All these sins and regrets have been weighing me down, Tywin. I had to cast them off.”

Part of him feared his wife had transformed in a matter of minutes into some type of religious zealot. The other part of him was envious of her sudden cheer, her ability to “cast off” her woes.

She must have seen the pain in his eyes, “Tywin,” her face became solemn, “ask for it, husband. It’s yours.”

He did not need to be told twice. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the ache the movement brought. He buried his face into her chest. The chest where her beautiful heart lay; where their beautiful child fed. Her robe parted so he could press his nose against her skin and inhale deeply. She smelled of sweet almond and the babe that had been held to her for who knows how long.

_If she’s mad, I’ll gladly follow her into that abyss._

“Forgive me, Sansa.”

“Of course, Tywin. But that isn’t what you need. You need to unburden.”

Yes… _yes…_ wasn’t that what he had sought her out to do?! To open himself up completely; to tell her everything, deny her nothing. To sweat out the poison. To _confess_. To cast off the weight…

He rose and practically dragged her toward her bed, peeling off layers of his clothing as a snake sheds its skin. He pulled her down to the bed with him, wrapping himself around her, separated only by the thin silk of her robe. His chest to her back, his lips to her ear, his hand holding onto her supple curves as if she were his raft in the stormy sea.

He spoke in a whisper, but it did not diminish the sense that this was, indeed, a confessional.

“I’ve done more heinous things than I can recount to you now… against people who deserved them and people who didn’t… against men and women both... against children. I didn’t do it with my own hands but with my authority, my command…”

“I didn’t just find relief in my daughter's death, I found peace; contentment even. Because she was getting in the way of everything I wanted to do for the realm and for you. I killed Joffrey. I conspired with Olenna Tyrell to do it and to frame Littlefinger, because he wanted to steal you away, and I wanted you for myself. I told myself and everyone around me it was your claim I wanted, but I wanted your mind, heart, and body as well. I had impure thoughts about you while you still wore the bruises of Joffrey’s attack…”

“I killed my grandson because he was bad for the realm, but mostly because he was a threat to my legacy and to your life. I shed not a tear; I lost not a wink of sleep, and I likely never will. To protect you, to protect Joelyn, I would kill a thousand kings. If that is a sin, then let me be a sinner. If Euron Greyjoy had survived, I’d have done unimaginable things to him, and I’d have enjoyed it...”

Tywin slid a finger between her thighs, finding her nub and stroking it gently. Sansa whimpered into her pillow, his lips following her so she could hear every word whispered, “…all because he threatened my wife, made lewd remarks to my wife. And I’ll do the same to any man who is fool enough to repeat his actions…”

“Tywin,” she mewled.

“I am a jealous man, Sansa. Seeing the way other men look at you, the way they want you, admire you… it brings to the surface all the insecurities I didn’t know I have. But it also makes me want to take you right on the high table in the Great Hall – to fuck you with my tongue, my fingers, my cock…”

“Tywin!” she groaned, bucking against his hand.

“…just so that they all know who you belong to. But make no mistake, wife. I belong to you just as much, perhaps even more so. No camp follower could tempt me in the months we were apart, little wolf. I fucked my hand to images of you writhing beneath me, you riding me, you sucking my cock… visions of things we’ve done before, and things that we’ve only done in my wildest fantasies.”

“Tywin, please,” she begged.

“I love you so much it fucking hurts, Sansa. Do you know that? You’ve exceeded every one of my hopes and expectations. You’re the definition of what a queen should be, but what so few are. I won’t put you on the throne because the thing is cursed, but you’ll still be my queen… and I want to worship at your feet, at your lips, and at the heavenly place between your legs.”

“Ty…” she breathed. She was panting as he worked her swollen pearl with a calloused finger.

“Fuck the Gods; when I need to confess, I’ll do so just like this. When I need to pray, I’ll do it by fucking you until you cry out to the Gods on behalf of both of us. When I need to atone, I’ll do my penance by serving you – kissing your feet, washing your hair, milking your cunt… draping you in gold and silks.”

“Tywin, don’t stop… don’t… don’t… oh Gods… oh GODS!!!”

“Yes, Sansa! Yes, my beautiful girl, my wife, my queen, my goddess…” he rubbed and whispered through her climax, only slowing when her body slumped against the mattress.

She laid boneless and spent, chest rising and falling, but he wasn’t nearly done with everything he had to say, “You’re my weakness and my strength, Sansa. My pain and my pleasure. My sin and my salvation. You spoke of confessing your crimes, your sins. Confess all you want, wife, but know that from this point forward, I’ll measure myself not by anything other than how well I treat you, how well I protect you. The Gods can send me to all Seven Hells for my sins for all I care, as long as I have memories of loving you well and fully, I’ll pass an eternity like the blink of an eye.”

She rolled over within his embrace, kissing the hollow of his throat.

“It wasn’t distrust that made me question you, wife. I trust you so much it frightens me. It was _madness_. I went mad and let the words of Cersei, Daenerys, even yourself pull me deeper in… but the madness was because of nothing you did, Sansa. It was because of crimes decades old… I failed to protect my wife, Sansa, from a madman. A man worse than Joffrey. The man stole my wife and left in her place a son who I could never love, and never quite hate.”

Sansa pulled back, and if Tywin still doubted her sanity, he had proof of it now, as her clever mind pieced everything together.

“The Mad King?” she whispered.

Tywin nodded.

Her eyes narrowed then widened, “He is Tyrion’s father?”

Tywin nodded, “I’d always suspected… sometimes felt sure, other times doubted it… but seeing him with the dragon confirmed my suspicion. The beasts only seemed interested in Daenerys, Tyrion, and…”

Sansa’s cheeks blushed. Tywin sat up so quickly he made himself dizzy, “You’ve never known who Jon’s mother was, have you?”

Her brow furrowed.

“This is the secret? The thing you won’t tell me… that Jon is a Targaryen?”

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, sighed, and eventually nodded.

“You were afraid that I would…”

When her eyes opened, they were glistening with tears. In the dim firelight they sparkled like diamonds.

“Sansa…”

“Tywin, I _promised_ …”

Tywin nodded. He felt like a fool, actually. He’d been so focused on his revelation about Tyrion that he hardly wondered why Jon Snow seemed to have his own bond with one of the winged beasts.

“It’s alright, Sansa.”

“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have doubted you even for a minute. You could have killed Daenerys and you didn’t. If you found it in yourself to show her mercy, of course you would do the same for my brother.”

“I can’t properly blame you for doubting me yesterday,” Tywin offered an apologetic smile.

Sansa cupped his cheek, “Your rage at the Mad King was clouding your judgment. All-in-all, you could have done worse.”

Tywin dropped his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I hurt you. I might have—”

“But you _didn’t_.”

_Little difference._

“I still don’t understand. What Targaryen woman would Ned have lain with? Jon’s of an age with your elder brother Robb, is he not? So Ned would have had to lay with someone just around the onset of the war. It couldn’t have been Rhaella… he’d never be close to her… he’d never be in contact with any Targaryen woman, that I can surmise.”

Sansa turned away from him, suddenly eager to find her robe.

“Sansa…”

“Yes?”

“Who are Jon’s parents?”

“I promised not to say, Tywin!”

He narrowed his eyes, “But he _is_ a Targaryen?”

Sansa nodded casually, trying to dismiss the subject.

“ _And_ a Stark?”

Sansa nodded, now twisting her hair into a simple braid to occupy fidgety fingers.

Tywin leaned back against her headboard. The answer was so obvious he suddenly wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him years ago. Perhaps it was more satisfying to believe Ned Stark – uptight, rigidly honorable Ned Stark, who eagerly branded Jaime a Kingslayer – had, at least once in his life, done something dishonorable. Even Tywin never betrayed a wife in that way.

“Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”

Sansa turned around, first feigning ignorance, then resigning to annoyance, “I thought I was clever for figuring it out! The whole bloody city will probably have a hunch by the end of the week.”

Tywin sat forward, “If Tyrion finds out, he’ll connect the dots… he will wonder about his own sire…”

Sansa took his hand, “Would that be the worst thing?”

“To learn he isn’t my son?!”

“He’d still be a Lannister, just like Jon is still a Stark.”

“That isn’t the point!”

“No, husband, the point is right now Tyrion thinks he is Tywin Lannister’s unloveworthy son. If he learns that you raised him _in spite_ of him not being yours, perhaps it will put things in a different perspective.”

Tywin flung his feet over the bed but did not make to rise, “I should go back to the bloody Wall with the bloody wights.”

Sansa smirked a bit at his colorful choice of words, “Husband, perhaps you aren’t realizing all the implications…”

“That I’m surrounded by fucking Targaryens, each with a fire-breathing dragon!?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “That two of those Targaryens are unwaveringly loyal to us.”

Tywin nodded, the realization seeping in, “Daenerys isn’t as indispensable as we thought…”

“No, but that doesn’t mean you should go back on your word…”

Tywin shook his head, “You’re making me soft, wife.”

Her eyes flicked to his groin, “We can’t have that,” she whispered just below his ear, her breath and words already sending blood to his groin.

She continued, serious subject matter delivered in a sultry tone, “If she realizes that she only controls one of the three dragons, she may be more inclined to remain loyal to King Tommen.”

Tywin groaned as her hand clamped around his shaft, “But that would mean revealing your brother’s secret, and my own… Tyrion and Jon may not want that.”

“Let me talk to Jon. I won’t do anything without his agreement... I’ve already betrayed him once, even if I didn’t explicitly tell you his secret, but I won’t do it again. And you talk to Tyrion. I suspect with his love of all things dragons he will be amenable, even if initially disturbed.”

Tywin shook his head even as lust made him want to agree to everything she said without pause, “It’s a secret I intended to take to my grave. My shame… Joanna…”

“It wasn’t your fault, Tywin.”

“It _was_.”

“It _wasn’t_. No more than what Joffrey did to me was your fault. No more than what Joffrey did to my father…” she swallowed thickly, “was _my_ fault.”

Tywin turned to face her, “It _wasn’t_ your fault, Sansa.”

“I know; I realized that today. And it wasn’t your fault, Tywin...”

Desire combatted with guilt.

“… it wasn’t Joanna’s fault or Tyrion’s fault, either. It was King Aerys’ fault; his alone.”

Tywin’s head dropped forward, “Say it again.”

She spoke more slowly this time, “It wasn’t your fault, or Joanna’s, or Tyrion’s… it was only King Aerys’ fault.”

Tywin nodded, finally able to let this grudge go.

Gently, Sansa brought his hand forward to wrap around his own shaft, then she resumed kissing his neck, occasionally sucking or nibbling on a particularly sensitive patch of skin, “Is this what you looked like in your tent on those cold northern nights?”

Tywin snorted, “I wasn’t bare naked, but yes.”

“What _wild fantasy_ invaded your mind most frequently?”

“What?”

“You said you imagined things we’ve done… and things you’ve only fantasized about.”

“Those are thoughts I will _not_ be confessing.”

Sansa pulled back, eying him so intently while chewing her bottom lip that he thought she might read his mind. Instead, she smiled impishly at him before lowering her eyes back down to his cock being stroked by his hand.

Her cheeks tinted, “I sometimes imagine strong arms pulling me into an alcove, a large hand covering my mouth to stifle my scream. And when I turn around the man in the shadows is you. You speak no words but press me up against the wall and take me, hard and fast. I don’t come because of the friction, I come because of the thrill of doing something so scandalous, hidden from servants and members of court alike by only a corner and a shadow.”

Tywin conjured the picture she’d painted. It was quite pleasing, and made his cock swell to a new fullness.

“Sometimes I think of riding your cock in the bathtub after we’ve washed each other from head to toe… the water splashes over, but neither of us cares.”

Another pulse, another surge.

“I’ve dreamt of waking you up by sucking your cock beneath the sheets, wondering if I could make you peak without even waking.”

He grunted, pleasure building toward a coda.

Pressing her cheek to his, she whispered directly into his ear, “But I think I know what _you_ dream of, husband. What you would wish for but would never ask for… Perhaps I shall try it one of these days… and if I’m right, you’ll tell me. If I’m wrong, maybe we’ll enjoy it anyway.”

The vision of what he wanted her to do to him flicked through his mind before he spilled his seed, shooting out of him to land feet from the bed.

Sansa grinned proudly. It wasn’t his hand but her words that did most of the work. After eyeing the white blobs on the wooden floor she looked back at him, all eroticism gone in place of feminine pride, “I’m not cleaning that up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh... so I had this chapter mostly written and completely outlined when I posted Truths Revealed Part I. But I've been really second guessing every word. So please, lovely readers, if you hate this one, keep it to yourself. Accuse me of censorship, I won't deny it, but after all the scrutiny I put into this, one mean word will make me cry. I'm a weenie. (You guys actually never say anything mean, but I'm afraid this will be the 'first time for everything')
> 
> Instead I'll preempt what you're probably all thinking:
> 
> Was this soap opera level melodrama? Yes.  
> Is Tywin evil? Prolly.   
> Is Tywin letting Dany live totally OOC? Yes.  
> Is it way too convenient that Jon and Tyrion are both dragon riders? Yes, call me lazy.  
> Is Sansa too forgiving? Maybe.  
> Is Sandor da bomb? YEEEUUUUPPP!!  
> Did Sansa kind of gloss over all the fucked up shit Tywin did in his life? Uh, yah, because ignorance is bliss, and she's too focused on her own 'crimes'.   
> Do Sansa and Tywin both go a little mad, then, conveniently, come out stronger? Yup.  
> Is Sansa magically making Tywin grow a conscience after 50+ years? Yes, but his own Tywin Lannister brand of conscience.  
> Are Tywin and Sansa totally imperfect characters? Yup. By design. Both had to grow up too fast. Both experienced betrayal and loss at a young age. Both had too few people they could confide in, and too few who could offer counsel, as they faced tremendous responsibility at a young age. They're both immature in some ways, and wise beyond their years in others. I love both these characters, but I abhor fics that write them as perfect, or their relationship as perfect. Fluffy Jaimsa... I'm all for it. Fluffy TySan, just rings so false to me. 
> 
> P.S. didn't mean to imply I don't welcome any comments, just... be gentle?


	52. Reflection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot going on plot-wise but I thought it was a good time to see what Tywin is thinking about everything and everyone.
> 
> Sorry I've been away so long. Busy life and I've been in a better headspace with my SanSan fics.

**Tywin**

Tywin stroked his wife’s hand as the carriage carried them to the Sept of Baelor for the Royal Wedding. Tommen and Margaery’s nuptials were overdue, but finally the time was right. Though the plague had crippled King’s Landing, the smallfolk were returning to prosperity, thanks in no small part to the personal generosity of Tywin Lannister and the Tyrells.

His radiant wife was fidgety, and Tywin knew the cause. She hated leaving Joelyn in the care of servants for longer than an hour or two. This morning as they dressed for the wedding, she was about to strap Jo to her breast when Tywin stopped her, “It will be a long day, Sansa. She will get hungry and fussy. Do you wish to have to quiet a crying babe while Tommen and Margaery exchange their vows?”

Sansa gave him the look – the look that said her mind was made up. He raised his hands in surrender, but Sansa surprised him, “Fine. But only if Sandor and Ser Andre stay here in the Tower. Your guards are more than enough to accompany us today.”

Before she could change her mind, Tywin dashed down the hall to inform the men. He thought he heard Clegane mutter, “Not a nurse” but Tywin ignored it.

When he returned to their bedchamber Sansa had slipped down her dress and was nursing their child. The sight never failed to stoke Tywin’s lust, but today he had no time to enjoy the domestic scene, “Sansa, we’re going to be late.”

Sansa huffed, “It’s either this or I’ll be leaking before we even make it to the Sept.” Sansa tried to shift Jo to her left breast, but the babe began crying. “Oh why are you so picky?” Sansa scolded lightly as she returned her to the right side.

Tywin rolled his eyes. He’d heard this complaint from Sansa before. Jo seemed completely uninterested in suckling from her left teat, and Sansa complained that it would swell painfully.

With Jo finally sated Sansa handed her off to Tywin who brought her to the adjoining nursery. When Tywin returned to the bedchamber, Sansa was in tears standing in front of her full-length mirror.

“What’s wrong?” he ran to her side.

“I look like a tavern wench!” Sansa cried.

Tywin rolled his eyes again, “I’ve seen far more revealing dresses, my love. And in case my opinion matters, I think you look spectacular.”

He wasn’t simply pacifying his wife; it was the truth. The tops of Sansa’s milky breasts peeked out, and Tywin wanted to devour them. Her dress was by no means low cut, but her swollen bosom overwhelmed the fabric. Tywin forced himself to look away. The maester had made it quite clear that after Sansa’s labor and subsequent illness, they should avoid intercourse for twelve weeks. Of course there were other ways to pleasure each other, but Tywin was counting down the days until he could plunge himself into his wife’s plush body. They had just over a sennight to wait, and Tywin was certain that when the time came, he would maul her like a lion.

The carriage pulled to a halt and Tywin exited first, then helped Sansa down. She was dressed in a crimson gown that matched the threading on Tywin’s black doublet. Around her neck was a thick, solid gold choker that Tywin gifted her just a sennight ago. He had commissioned several other pieces at the same time and couldn’t wait to drape her from head to toe in gold mined at his own Casterly Rock. He imagined her writhing beneath him, naked but for the gold and jewels wrapped around her neck, wrists, fingers, and even ankles.

His lovely musings were cut short by the sound of thousands of voices cheering their names. All the spectators who lined the streets of the city were in awe of Tywin Lannister and his lady wife. It didn’t hurt his pride one bit that the loudest voices were the ones crying out _“Lady Sansa”._

Tywin smiled and kissed his wife on the hand, which made the crowds cheer even more loudly.

Sansa pushed him away gently with a smile on her lips, “Today is about Tommen and Margaery, husband.”

“And I’m sure they’ll cheer for Margaery when her carriage arrives. Can I not bask in the adoration being expended on my lovely wife?”

Sansa chuckled, “You wear arrogance so well, my lord.”

Tywin snorted. They walked into the Sept together, Sansa holding tightly to his arm. Jaime and Loras were flanking the stairs. Tyrion was standing with Daenerys, Jon, Shireen, Genna, and Kevan. Tywin and Sansa walked to stand just in front of them. Across the aisle stood Willas and Garlan Tyrell. Garlan’s wife, Leonette, had come to the capital for the Royal Wedding. Willas stood tall and proud though aided by a cane. Several of Margaery’s many cousins stood behind them.

Everyone quieted when they heard more cheers outside, heralding the arrival of Margaery and Mace Tyrell. All eyes turned to watch the bride – the soon-to-be queen – being led down the aisle by her father. Tywin, not caring to be humble, leaned down to whisper in Sansa’s ear, “I may not have Tommen’s youth, but I can say unequivocally that I have the more beautiful bride.”

Sansa glared up at him, a reprimand in her eyes but a smirk on her lips.

Tywin turned his attention back to the ceremony, watching – for the second time in his life – one of his grandsons drape Margaery Tyrell in the Baratheon cloak. Unlike the first time, Tywin felt nothing but pride. Tommen lacked the natural aptitude for ruling, but the boy had a fair and generous heart. It was up to Tywin, Tyrion, and Sansa to continue to teach the young king how to rule and rule well. Tywin’s only concern now was that Tommen would never command the respect and fear needed to keep a population in line and to dissuade those who think to rebel. That could be a problem.

It wasn’t a problem _now_ , of course. With the wealthiest kingdoms behind him, no one would stand against the young king. But Tywin didn’t want to be in the capital forever. His goal had always been to stabilize things and return to Casterly Rock after instilling a capable Hand. No one could fill Tywin’s shoes, but it would be enough to have someone loyal, intelligent, and pragmatic. Someone who was diplomatic but not craven. He knew there were only two people who fit the bill. Well, technically three, but one of them was Sansa who would, of course, live in Casterly Rock with Tywin. It was one of the happier musings Tywin allowed himself – the idea of Sansa surrounded by the clean, warm air of the Rock, with a child or two at her skirts, and another in her belly. His fear of what could happen to her on the birthing bed always dueled with his primal desire to see her ripe with his child. He missed that phase of her pregnancy with Joelyn, but he made a vow to never miss it again. He wanted to see her round belly, to lay his hands on it and feel his next cub making its presence known with gentle kicks. He even suspected he would be there when her labor came. He knew maesters and midwives thought it ill form for the father to be in the room, but Tywin didn’t bother himself with their opinions. If Sansa wanted him with her, holding her hand, wiping her brow, whispering words of comfort, he would be there.

_Gods… you are getting soft._

Funny thing; he didn’t give a fuck.

He thought then about the two other options for the position of Hand to the King. Kevan would fulfill the role admirably, but he wanted no part of King’s Landing. He’d only remained this long as a courtesy to Tywin, but Lannisters weren’t known for having boundless supplies of courtesy.

That left Tyrion. During the war, when Tywin sent him to King’s Landing to act as Hand, he did so only because there were no other Lannisters available, at least none with a mind for politics which Tywin begrudgingly admitted Tyrion possessed. When Tywin rode into King’s Landing in the midst of battle, he found the city had been so thoroughly mismanaged it was impossible not to cringe. He blamed Tyrion, among others, but looking back now he knew Tyrion inherited a mess that could not have been fixed in a matter of months. Petyr Baelish had put the Crown in significant debt, and Joffrey had done nothing to help stabilize the city. In fact, he actively contributed to the chaos, if not directly, then by being so unlikeable that the citizens became riotous. Tywin couldn’t help but think – if Robb Stark had made his way to the capital, he’d have added millions of smallfolk to his cause, tens of thousands of men to his army… He’d never had made it to the capital but _if_ he had, there’d be a wolf on the throne. And if the wolf had a brain, he would keep his sister by his side. But more likely he’d trade her to gain an ally, or to reward a particularly loyal house. And what an utter waste that—

Sansa touched his elbow and Tywin realized the ceremony was concluded. The newlywed King and Queen of Westeros filed out to the cheers of the smallfolk, Jaime and Loras leading the procession and the other King- and Queensguard bringing up the rear.

Tywin and Sansa walked out alongside Mace and Willas Tyrell. His friendly wife had curtsied for the crippled lord of Highgarden. The man beamed back at her, and Tywin, once again, resisted the urge to snarl. He was proud of Sansa’s ability to charm anyone – man or woman – but that didn’t mean he enjoyed seeing the way men responded to her. Sansa allowed Willas to escort her out of the Sept, with Mace and Tywin right behind them.

“It was a lovely ceremony,” Willas spoke in his humble voice, “I’m so glad I could make it… it does me good to see my sister wed to such a kindhearted man.”

Sansa turned and smiled radiantly at the man, “Indeed. Margaery is a vivacious and sweet lady; she deserves a husband who will allow her to shine!”

Tywin took a deep breath to avoid rolling his eyes. Such platitudes were beneath Sansa, though he understood she was only trying to endear herself with the Lord of Highgarden.

Once again, the crowd became pleasantly raucous once Sansa exited. She offered a small wave to the onlookers before allowing Ser Addam to usher her into the carriage, Tywin right behind her.

Inside, Tywin brought her hand to his lips, “I suspect you might even be able to charm Ser Loras, wife, given enough time.”

Sansa blushed, pretending to be scandalized even as she smiled, “If I succeeded, it would only be because Loras is trying to get closer to Jon.”

Tywin felt his mouth drop open. Sansa giggled, “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the glances sent Jon’s way…”

Tywin snorted, “As a matter of fact I did not.”

Sansa’s face became serious, “Yes, you did look rather distracted during the ceremony. Is aught amiss?”

Tywin shook his head, “I was just thinking about how much progress we’ve made. And how perfect you are.”

She blushed again, “Save those compliments, husband. Another sennight, remember?” she raised an eyebrow seductively.

He leaned to whisper in her ear, “Actually wife, it’s nine days… not that I have been counting…” He skimmed his thumb along the lace hem of her bodice, smiling as she shivered in response.

“We’re here,” Tywin nodded toward the window, though his eyes never left her skin.

She huffed, “You’re horrible.”

“You like it,” he whispered as he planted a kiss below her ear.

He pulled away just as the carriage door swung open. Addam’s eyes darted between his lord and flushed lady, but Tywin couldn’t care less.

They made their way to the Great Hall. The weather had been too unpredictable these days to plan a garden wedding. Some days, like today, were comfortably warm and sunny. On other days the sky was grey, and a cold northerly wind blew through the city, creeping its way into every window seam, every crack in the mortar.

The event was superior to the last royal wedding in every possible way. The King was much more gracious, not to mention sober. Margaery’s smile appeared genuine, even if Tywin couldn’t help but notice her skin never completely recovered its former glow after her bout with the plague. The guests did not walk on eggshells, afraid of upsetting the King. Tywin wasn’t worried about letting Sansa out of his sight. Cersei wasn’t there to cast malevolent glares at Sansa, Tyrion, and Tywin. The food and drink were plentiful, but not exorbitant.

Tywin scanned the room, as was his habit. He was always studying, always looking for the telltale scowl or forced smile of someone not entirely in support of the King or Queen.

He could find none.

A few of Margaery’s cousins and other young ladies of court flocked to Jon Snow, who looked completely out of his element. Though a bastard, as Sansa’s only living sibling Jon was seated at a table of importance along with Tyrion, Daenerys, and Shireen. Ser Davos sat with them, though the man looked equally out of place. Jon, Davos, and Shireen spent more time talking to one another than socializing with other guests.

Mace and Willas Tyrell sat with Garlan and his wife Leonette, who looked as delicate as ever. Tywin hated that in that moment he pitied the handsome young knight. Tywin couldn’t imagine being wed to someone so frail. Tywin appraised his own wife. She looked so strong, so unbreakable… and it didn’t bother Tywin that her nursing body was voluptuous in a way it hadn’t been before. Sansa was still on the slender side, but her face, bosom, and hips had a plumpness she wore well. Tywin imagined she was one of those women who, like his sister Genna, could wear any figure well. Perhaps it was her height, a few inches taller than most other ladies.

“You’re staring, husband,” Sansa whispered around her goblet of watered wine.

Tywin only snorted and shook his head. He’d been staring at her often since he returned from the North. More accurately, he’d been staring at her often since the night of the thunderstorm. Thoughts never voiced and never entirely trusted came out of Tywin’s mouth that night. He told his wife, in no uncertain terms, that he worshipped the very ground she walked on. He gave her all the power, all the control, and yet she did not wield it as he thought she might. She still submitted to him in public, allowing his image of the untamable lion to remain firmly intact. Part of him had also feared he would lose her respect if he admitted just how weak he was, when it came to her. But if anything it seemed to have improved their relationship. She allowed him to dote on her more than she ever had before, and she allowed herself to reciprocate. In the past she’d always held something back, and so did he. She had confessed her love of him long ago, but there was always a part of herself she kept locked away. It was insurance in the event Tywin hurt or betrayed her – that it might break her heart, but not her _whole_ heart.

But now Tywin believed he had even that last piece, and he’d be damned if he ever made her regret yielding it.

Dancing ensued. Conversation was had. Performers entertained the crowd. Gifts were exchanged. Cake was handed out. But it all happened through a fog for Tywin, who was lost in his thoughts. He and Sansa chatted with Margaery and Tommen. With Kevan and Genna. With everyone at Tyrion’s table. With the Tyrells. With the Tarlys. With Lord Royce. With lords and ladies from the Westerlands, Reach, Riverlands, and Vale. He felt his mouth moving, piecing together the appropriate words and phrases, though Sansa carried the conversation, as always.

Tywin sat with Tyrion as Sansa danced first with Jon, then with Lord Royce, Garlan Tyrell, Ser Davos, and Dickon Tarly. When she boldly approached Randyll Tarly, Tywin almost ran to intervene. Randyll did not dance. He did not socialize. He barely did anything but scowl. So when the stoic lord led Sansa on the dance floor, more than a few eyes widened and more than a few mouths snapped shut.

Randyll’s mouth was straight even as Sansa flashed her most irresistible smile. Tywin could tell they were conversing as they danced, and he practically rubbed his palms together in excitement to later learn what was said between them. Tarly was influential in the Reach, second only to the Tyrells. Though without their assertive matriarch, Tywin wondered if the Tyrells would lose some of their influence. Willas was viewed as a fair lord, but after years of war the people seemed to desire a firmer hand… not a menace like Joffrey, but someone like Tywin or Randyll – a man who could lead his people through battle, if it came to that.

At the conclusion of the song, Sansa curtsied while Randyll surprised everyone by bowing deeply and kissing her pale knuckles, even as he maintained his dour countenance. Sansa walked to Jon’s table with the posture of a queen, and Tywin had to fight the grin that pulled on his cheeks. That grin was for Sansa and Sansa alone.

Sansa sat and chatted with Daenerys, Jon and Tyrion while Ser Davos spun Shireen around the dancefloor like a father might. The girl had grown since Tywin first saw her at Moat Cailin, but she remained short for her age even as her body began to blossom in other ways.

Tywin watched the table of young wolves and dragons talk and laugh. He was cautiously pleased to see Daenerys seemingly content in King’s Landing, though he wasn’t sure if he would ever trust the young woman. As she looked fondly upon Tyrion and Jon, he wondered if she knew they were her kin – Jon her nephew, Tyrion her half-brother. Jon knew of his relation to Daenerys but had not yet told anyone but Sansa. Sansa and Tywin knew of Tyrion’s relation to Daenerys, but had not yet told anyone, including Tyrion and Daenerys.

Tywin would have that talk with his son soon enough. He knew he was delaying it unnecessarily, using the royal wedding as an excuse. He worried about the questions that would come up, and, despite Sansa’s reassurance, he worried he would be judged for failing to protect Joanna from the Mad King.

Tywin’s eyes had glazed – open but unseeing – thus he was startled when a soft warm hand found his. He turned to find his wife, apparently finished with her tour of pleasantries.

“I’m tired,” she said quietly.

He nodded. He knew, despite her protests, that she was still not back at full capacity after her difficult labor and subsequent infection. Nursing also sapped her body of energy. They bid goodnight to Tommen and Margaery, made their way back to the Tower of the Hand, and retrieved Jo from the nurse.

Sansa sat in bed, leaning against their bronze headboard, her eyes closed peacefully as Jo nursed. The night was young, so Tywin kissed her forehead and left to work in his solar, knowing Sansa would use the time to rest.

When he returned hours later Sansa was, as expected, asleep. She laid on her side of their massive bed, with Jo in the middle, dead to the world even as her tiny fist gripped a lock of her mother’s hair.

With a content grin Tywin stripped down and joined them, selfishly pleased when Sansa woke and smiled up at him. When she didn’t closer her eyes right away, he took her hand and kissed it, “What were you and Lord Tarly discussing?”

Sansa’s smile widened into a mischievous thing, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Tywin snorted in response, knowing she’d tell him. And she did.

“I was inquiring after his son Dickon.”

“Oh?”

She nodded against the pillow, “And perhaps expressing my hope that Lady Olenna’s passing hasn’t destabilized the Reach, knowing Lord Tarly is most loyal to the Tyrells and would no doubt become embroiled in any… hostilities.”

Tywin chuckled, “And?”

“Willas is respected. He is considered to be fair and wise. With his sister as queen, one brother in the Queensguard, and one brother on the Small Council, the people believe he has influence, though no one thinks he has his late grandmother’s shrewdness.”

“But?”

Sansa smiled, amused by how well Tywin knew her, “ _But…_ when there are serious matters, disputes, and the like, Lord Tarly sometimes feels like the unofficial Warden. Lords bring their more serious complaints to him. I’m sure you’ll know how to interpret that fact better than I.”

“And the other matter – Dickon?”

“The young man can have his pick of maidens in the Reach, but Lord Tarly’s aspirations are… less local.”

“Mmm… he wants to expand his influence by marrying Dickon to a daughter of another kingdom.”

Sansa nodded, “I might have mentioned that there are many lovely young ladies in the North. White Harbor, Bear Island…”

“And you didn’t mention Shireen?”

“I may have, but she is still young. I actually think Willas Tyrell would be a better match, but I realize that doesn’t benefit us, since we already have the Tyrells’ allegiance. And perhaps I’d like to… keep her on ice.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a saying in the North. Meaning to put off making a decision... keep all options open.”

“Right, but what does it mean regarding Shireen?”

“Promise not to judge me?”

Tywin snorted, “If you need to ask that, I have a feeling whatever you’re about to say is only going to earn you more of my respect, wife.”

Sansa bit her lip, “I don’t hope this will happen, but should Margaery prove to not be able to fulfill the most important duty of a queen…”

Tywin lifted his head off the pillow, “You think Margaery could be barren?”

“No, I have no reason to think that, other than that it happens all the time – to women highborn and lowborn alike. No doubt if Westeros had thousands of years of Kings and Queens there’d be several instances where a queen had to be put aside because she could not give the king heirs. The Targaryens took multiple wives, so it wasn’t an issue. I’m just saying, as a contingency plan, if Tommen had to remarry, wouldn’t we want it to be someone we could trust? Someone who will be loyal to us?”

“You’d have him cast aside Margaery and marry his cousin?”

“You married your cousin. It’s perfectly permissible. And as for the Tyrells, of course some other consolation must be offered. Perhaps Shireen could be convinced to give them a portion of the Stormlands, or we could offer to marry Tommen and Shireen’s first son to Willas’ first daughter so there would someday by a Tyrell Queen again.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into something that will only happen and _can_ only happen if Margaery doesn’t produce an heir…” Tywin narrowed his eyes, “What do you know?”

Sansa sighed, “I don’t know anything for a fact…”

“Fine, then what do you suspect?”

“Do you know that Jo’s wet-nurse is a cousin of one of Margaery’s maids?”

“I suppose I remember you telling me this…”

“Well, Shira told me that Jeyne hinted that Margaery and Tommen may have known each other before the wedding. Perhaps a few times. Perhaps several times… before the plague and later, after their recoveries.”

“So? She may have drunk moontea.”

“To dispel a little prince or princess? No; not Margaery. If anything she’d keep the babe and insist on an immediate wedding – what better way to secure herself as Queen? This is her third chance at being the Queen. Renly never bedded her, if rumors are true, and Joffrey never had the chance, unless they, too, were intimate prior to marrying. Your departure north delayed her wedding to Tommen. Then the plague, Lord Euron’s attack, Daenerys’ arrival… one thing after postponed he wedding and threatened to stop it altogether. If I were Margaery, desperate to become queen but knowing how easily it could slip through my fingers, I would endear myself to the king however I could.”

Tywin raised a brow. She rolled her eyes, “I wasn’t desperate to become queen. Or if I was, it was only _before_ I knew the king.”

Tywin nodded, “She has lost some of her luster since I’ve been back.”

“The fever was hard on her. I fear her lungs will always be weak.”

“So the maester has told me.”

Sansa nodded and was pensive for a few minutes before continuing, “There is another matter to discuss, Tywin.”

“What?”

She let out a long sigh, “Tyrion… you need to tell him, Tywin. He needs to know. And Daenerys needs to know about him and Jon. We need to see how she reacts.”

Tywin rubbed his brow. He knew Sansa was right, but he was trying to postpone the inevitable while ignoring reality. He focused on the latter part of her sentence, “If she reacts poorly… if she doesn’t like the idea of sharing her name, or her dragons…?”

“Then we need to learn if Tyrion and Jon can control the beasts without her.”

Tywin snorted, “Were you born this way?”

Her brow frowned, “What way?”

“Cunning. Ruthless.”

Sansa shook her head, “I was born naïve and forgiving.”

He shook his head in wonderment, giving her a half smile so she would know he was not criticizing. Far from it.

“What made you change?” He suspected the answer was _Joffrey_ but wanted to hear her opinion. Did she realize that through pain she gained strength? That through adversity she gained wisdom?

She sighed again, “Joffrey. Cersei. Sandor. You.”

She closed her eyes then, leaving Tywin to wonder in silence.

“Good night, husband.”


	53. Surrender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another zero plot chapter in the grand scheme of things, but a milestone for TySan. 
> 
> Caution: NSFW. 
> 
> We'll get back to some story plot after this.

**Tywin**

Tywin grew more tense with each day that passed without him having the conversation with Tyrion he knew was inevitable. Sansa didn’t have to ask to know; Tywin saw her understanding each night when they went to sleep, her eyes tinged with equal parts compassion and judgment. The Great Lion was afraid of talking to his dwarf son, of revealing truths long buried behind a façade of perfection.

Only one night did Tywin address the matter directly with her, insisting there was no urgency to reveal Tyrion’s true parentage; insisting there were more important matters demanding his attention. She was good enough not to point out the obvious – that Tywin was delaying the inevitable out of cowardice and cowardice alone. Yet her failure to voice what they both knew was grating. Sansa had never shirked back from speaking her mind, at least when they were alone together. Since long before she was his wife, she met his eyes bravely and didn’t shy away from letting him know what she thought of him. In those early days it was largely disdain, though mixed with a respect that she was too pragmatic to deny.

Tywin was self-aware enough to recognize his irritation toward her was a misdirection of what should have been pointed at himself. She likely knew this as well, yet she suffered his short temper with unusual patience that further frustrated him. He wanted her to call his bluff, then wear him down with sound reason until he was forced to confront the past.

But she didn’t. She abided his curtness and occasional stinging barbs and he resented her for it nearly as much as he resented himself for using his beloved wife as his metaphorical whipping post.

It wasn’t until a sennight after the royal wedding that he saw her resolve finally begin to fray. Her look was venomous, but still she did not voice the words he was waiting for. A few more days passed before she mirrored his own snappishness with subtle barbs of her own.

But ultimately his cunning wife found a different way to address the heavy topic that was lingering in the air all throughout their bedchamber. Tywin’s mind had still been busy with the work of the day as they dined in mutually distracted silence. He could have forgotten her presence entirely until she took a sip of wine and sighed, “I think I should be the one to tell Tyrion.”

Tywin’s head snapped up from the hearty stew he was eating but not tasting.

“And why is that?” he asked, tone measured but hinting at annoyance.

“Tyrion and I are close; perhaps he will be more at ease having such a discussion with me.”

Tywin knew Sansa and Tyrion were friendly in a way Tywin and Tyrion were not, but he disagreed nonetheless, “Closer than I am to my own son?”

“Yes,” she answered plainly.

Tywin sat back, “Why does it matter that he knows now?”

She lifted one brow, a gesture that could indicate teasing or contained annoyance, “I’ve already told you. So we can gauge Daenerys’ reaction. Also because we don’t know when we will be called upon to travel north to face this army Jon speaks of. And because Tyrion and Daenerys grow closer every day. I dare say he’s half in love with her, and that she returns his affection. They probably feel some bond, some pull… it will bloom into romantic love if they don’t realize it’s merely the instinctive attachment one feels toward their own kin.”

She ate a spoonful of stew, her face not betraying how seriously she took the concern.

“You think Daenerys Targaryen would fall in love with Tyrion?” Tywin snorted.

“Is it so hard to believe? He is intelligent, kind, funny.”

Her words were a dare. She dared him to object to her appraisal on the mere grounds that Tyrion was a malformed human being. A year ago he’d have no qualms in doing so. He knew better now, so he said nothing.

“Do I have your permission to speak with him, my lord?” her voice was innocent but her use of the formal title made him cringe. She used it when they were in public, of course, but the only time she addressed him that way in private was when she was making a point.

“No, you do not,” he answered brusquely.

She nodded, “I understand. You wish to control the dialogue.”

Tywin dropped his napkin onto the table, “It has nothing to do with control and you know it.”

Her eyebrow arched again, “No?”

“No. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Sansa.”

“What am I doing?”

He sighed, “Don’t play dumb; it doesn’t become you.”

“And fear doesn’t become you, my lord.”

Tywin snorted, “What, pray tell, am I afraid of?”

“Of speaking to Tyrion. Of receiving his judgment. Of potentially causing him pain.”

“Tyrion is a grown man who has felt his share of pain, as have we all. And do you truly think _I_ would worry about _his_ judgment?”

“I’ve already told you – there _is_ no cause for worry. Tyrion may have an emotional reaction, but he will _not_ judge you. All the more reason you shouldn’t be afraid.”

Tywin snorted, “Don’t lecture me on being afraid. You’re so afraid of leaving our daughter alone that you carry her around on your breast like you’re some lowly peasant, not a lady with dozens of servants and guards at your disposal.”

Finally he got the desired response as Sansa’s nostrils flared. In truth, it pleased him to see Sansa so protective of their daughter, but there was a shortage of insults he could lob her way that would be effective.

Though he could see the temptation in her eyes, she didn’t take the bait. “I know what you’re trying to do, husband. Stop changing the subject.”

“Then stop trying to control me. I’ve given you a long leash wife, but that doesn’t mean you get to dictate everything I do and when I do it.”

“Ah, I must have hit close to the bone, as you now accuse _me_ of being controlling.”

Tywin stood, “I won’t do this. My days are too stressful to spend my nights engaging in a battle of words with you. I’ll speak to Tyrion when I’m ready.”

“And I would have no objection to you doing so, if it weren’t so obviously weighing on your mind. You’re like a soldier afraid of the hot blade that will seal his wound. You’ll let this poison you instead of abiding the intense but fleeting pain.”

Tywin snorted, “Perhaps I am, but if that’s the case you’re the maester trying to tie me down.”

Her eyebrow arched again, and this time the gesture was curious rather than critical. Tywin didn’t know what to make of it.

“Perhaps I am,” she parroted. She rose then, “I’m going to spend some time with Jo before going to sleep.”

Tywin nodded. He also left, but to head to his desk to finish some letters.

Working didn’t distract him from his anger at her for being right. _As always._ Feeling his muscles growing tauter by the second he finished what needed to be done then readied himself for bed.

Over an hour had passed and Sansa had not yet returned to their bedchamber. He knew she was avoiding him, but he would not go to retrieve her, nor would he give her the satisfaction of finding him waiting up for her. He extinguished all but one of the candles and went to bed.

…

Tywin stirred awake to a tickling sensation on the inside of his right wrist, but when he tried to move the limb he found it secured flush against the cool bronze headboard, “What the—” he began to panic just before he felt a weight on his torso. His eyes adjusted and he could see Sansa was straddling his chest.

It took his sleepy brain a moment to realize she was tying something around his left wrist. As he tried to pull the hand away from her grasp, she quickly looped the something through the headboard and yanked hard until his wrist was flush against it.

“Sansa!” he meant to scold but his voice came out as frightened. Unable to move his hands he lifted his hips in an effort to buck her off, but she was already turning and moving down his body, now pinning his right shin under her body. He could feel the damp heat of her center and it almost – _almost_ – distracted him from his growing fear. She was tying him to the bed. Had he upset her so much that she intended to punish him for it? She tied something around his ankle then leaned forward to loop the other end around the post at the lower right corner of the bed.

“Sansa,” he said again, forcing artificial calmness into his tone.

“Yes?”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I should think it’s rather obvious.”

“Fine, then _why_ are you doing it? You’re this made because we had a disagreement?”

“I’m not mad, husband; I’m disappointed.”

As he was distracted by his confusion, he didn’t notice her crawling over to straddle his other shin, not that he could do much to protest unless he was willing to kick his wife in the ribs.

Panic flooded into him now. Whatever safety one free limb afforded him was about to be gone. He instinctively tried to pull the leg back, but her weight was pressed down on it as her hands gripped his ankle like a vice. He felt the binds being tied around that ankle and only now realized that the fabric felt cool and smooth. _Silk_.

She hopped off the bed without dropping the other end of the makeshift rope. He yanked back his leg, but she held firm, winding the tie around the post and pulling, using the leverage it afforded her to neutralize his superior strength.

“Sansa,” he said again, “What are you doing?”

“There’s much I have forgiven but not forgotten, husband.”

His blood went cold as his skin became hot, “What in all seven hells are you talking about?”

“Your promise to get home before my labor…”

“I said I’d do everything in my power, and I did!”

“Yes, but you also said if you failed in upholding said promise you’d spend the rest of your days making it up to me.”

“And that’s what this is?”

She shrugged. He could see her clearly now as she’d begun lighting candles around the room. His heart sped, wondering if she planned to perform some odd witchcraft on him.

“You also accused me of sleeping with Jaime. Your own son.”

“I apologized for that! You know I don’t think that!”

“Don’t think I don’t see the possessiveness in your eyes when I speak to any other man. Ser Garlan, Lord Willas, Ser Andre, Sandor, Dickon Tarly… You don’t own me Tywin.”

“Fuck, Sansa. I’ve admitted as much. We’ve gotten past all this.”

“Perhaps you have, but I haven’t.”

He tried to reason with her, “Sansa, untie me and we will talk about this.”

“There was also the ridiculous scheme regarding my sister… you not believing me about Joffrey… you not believing me about Cersei… oh the things I could tell you about her…”

His mouth went dry, “What are you talking about?”

“It’s not my story to tell, but your blindness to your own daughter nearly cost us everything.”

“What the fuck are you going on about?”

“And last but not least, your role in the deaths of my mother and brother.”

A sweat broke out on his upper lip at that last complaint.

“Sansa stop!” he was just a hair shy of shouting, “these are old grievances you raise! We have moved past all of them!”

She shrugged as she went to retrieve something from her knitting basket. In the candlelight he saw it was the pair of gold scissors Tywin had gifted her early in their marriage.

“Or perhaps I’ve just been biding my time, waiting until I had the _people’s love_ to protect me.”

“Sansa you’ve made your fucking point.”

“Have I?” she asked innocently as she moved toward him with the scissors.

Had he been deceived by his wife all this time? Had the she-wolf been simply biding her time, waiting for the right moment to strike? _Has she been keeping me on ice?_

Blood was pulsing in every vein of his body. Temples, chest, ankles, hands…

_Lord Royce of the Vale… Lady Shireen of the Stormlands… Lord Tyrell of the Reach… Jon Snow, her only living kin… So many people who would support her if she rid herself of me._

_Daenerys… Tyrion... Davos... The Hound... Ser Garlan... Ser Andre…_

_The people of the North… the people of King’s Landing._

At realizing how much power he had allowed his once-enemy to amass, Tywin felt like a fool. Fuck, had he been thinking with his cock? With his cock?

But now was not the time for reflection. He began squirming back and forth as she hovered over his thighs with the scissors.

She huffed at him, “If you move, I’m liable to cut you, and that would ruin all the fun.”

 _Fun?_ He stilled as she dragged the sharp scissors up the length of his sleep shirt from bottom hem to neckline, then from neck down each of the sleeves. The cool metal touched his skin but did not draw blood.

“Up,” she commanded, and he pressed his heels into the mattress just enough to raise his torso off the bed as she yanked the now useless shirt out from under him.

“I liked that shirt,” he growled, beginning to sense this wasn’t some act of revenge but something else entirely.

She repeated the process with his smallclothes. She moved to straddle his chest again, casually holding what was now a rag in one hand, “You’ll be a good boy, do as I say, and not speak unless spoken to, or I’ll gag you with this. Understand?”

He nodded, already committed to complete obedience.

“Good,” she responded, though it looked like she was hoping for an objection. Perhaps he’d test that theory later…

She walked back to the knitting basket and retrieved something small he couldn’t see.

She didn’t quite meet his eyes when she returned to the bed, sitting next to him, “Two namedays passed while you were away. One of mine and one of yours. Not knowing when you’d be back, I wanted to have something to give you, but what does one buy the Great Lion? The man who shits gold!”

“…Tyrion of all people suggested a boutique called _Jonquil’s_ by the pier… have you ever been there?”

He shook his head, uncertain whether he was permitted to speak.

“Well, imagine my surprise when I entered and found it was just an ordinary woman’s boutique, completely undistinguished from any other. Dresses, hats, boots, stockings, shawls, slippers... Not thinking Tyrion would purposely waste my time for the sake of a jape, I asked the clerk if there was another Jonquil’s that sold gift items for men…”

Tywin was enraptured with the seemingly benign tale, wondering what it could possibly have to do with his present state.

“… The clerk smiled at me and locked the main door, separating me from my guards. I was unsettled, but when she led me to a back room, I understood the need for secrecy. The room was filled with all manner of women’s nightclothes, each more scandalous than the next. Some barely more than a few triangles of lace that would be held up by the thinnest ribbon you can imagine. Some were more practical, of course, simple night dresses with lace accents… One in particular caught my eye, though I dared not to look to closely for fear of what the clerk might think of me…

Do you want to know what it looked like?”

He nodded. Sansa smiled, “You’re allowed to speak when spoken to, remember?”

He nodded again, “Yes,” he croaked. His voice broke even on that single syllable.

Sansa stood and untied her sleeping robe. The silk dropped to the floor, but Tywin’s eyes didn’t follow the discarded red fabric; they were busy blinking at the clothing – if it could be called that – covering his wife’s curvy form. The color was a shimmery gold that sparkled in the candlelight. It tied around the neck, and the “brassiere” was nothing more than fine gold thread hanging in braids to form a fringe that danced with even the slightest movement, sometimes revealing a nipple, or a round swell of flesh, before hiding it again much to soon.

His eyes drifted lower and saw the smallclothes were similarly constructed. It seemed nothing covered her woman’s place; it was merely hidden behind another fringed curtain that revealed hints of the copper hair at her juncture.

“Good choice,” Tywin growled.

Sansa’s brow raised and she clicked her tongue in exaggerated admonishment, “I didn’t tell you to speak.” She shook her head, “But I think I will forgive your first offense. I won’t bind your mouth now, when there are so many things I have planned for it, but you did disobey…”

She lifted a candlestick off the nightstand. Tywin’s eyes went wide as she very slowly began tilting it a few inches over his belly. It felt like time extended as he waited for the inevitable pain. When it finally came, he winced. It indeed burned but was short-lived, and the uncomfortable sensation was dulled by the surge of blood to his cock. He tried to stifle a groan, but it sounded from within his throat.

“As I was saying,” Sansa continued as she returned the candlestick to the small table, “after recovering from my shock at the sight of such scandalous attire, I was led to yet another room…

This room could have been a gallery of fine art, though there was a very apparent and _taboo_ theme. Shelves upon shelves held glass and wooden cocks in all sizes and shapes – some curved, some straight, some anatomically-accurate, others like caricatures of the real thing. Some were painted in the colors of flesh, complete with small bluish veins… and this was but one section of the room. There was another section dedicated to items fit for a torture chamber. Whips, flogs, shackles… another area featured masks, some of which would cover only upper half of the face, others would cover the entire head, with buttons over the mouth and eyes. Some of it was downright terrifying – so much that I almost ran out to the safety of the street. But what would the clerk think of the _Great Lioness,_ afraid of what she called “toys”? I explored the objects trying to downplay my anxiety _and_ my interest… Eventually I found a shelf with an assortment of tiny little leather belts – I mean, small enough for a doll. My curiosity got the better of me and I inquired as to their purpose. The clerk explained that they are meant to be used on a man’s… _tool…_ to make sure the tool fulfills its purpose.”

Sansa then revealed the items in her hand. They were not little leather belts, but two simple hair ribbons. She shrugged, “I understand leather may be provocative to some, but I have ladylike tastes.” She pivoted around and positioned herself between Tywin’s legs. He felt utterly exposed and vulnerable, spread out before her like this, and the emotions had his cock swelling to a painful fullness.

Sansa met his eyes, “Do all men get this hard when they’re scared?”

He ignored the obviously rhetorical question. She knew there was no more fear in his heart, only anticipation that blinded him to the fact that he should be bothered by his little wife having him entirely at her mercy… **_should_** _be_...

She tied the first ribbon tightly around the base of his shaft beneath his balls. He could understand now the design – it was like a tourniquet trapping all the blood in his cock. The second ribbon she tied just above his balls. Together they pulled his scrotum away from his body in a way that was arousing and painful at the same time. Sansa then stroked him there, her soft skin gently tracing over his wrinkled flesh. The unexpected sensation forced him to suck in a lungful of air, “Sansa…” he moaned.

She shook her head again, “I see you didn’t learn your lesson the first time.”

She retrieved the candle again, this time hovering it inches above his nipple. The anticipation alone made his cock ache – the actual burning would have been enough to make him spill his seed but apparently, that wasn’t possible at the moment. All he could do was buck against his restraints, hoping Sansa would take mercy on him.

She didn’t.

She instead reached into the drawer of her nightstand, withdrawing a long feather dyed vibrant shades of blue and gold. She began at his feet, dragging the feather lightly up his calves, then his inner thighs, and ghosting it over his balls and cock. The delicate tickle was torture. She was stroking it along the trail of hair that led form his manhood all the way to his chest when she spoke again.

“Suffice to say, I made a few purchases there. One of which you’ve already seen,” she nodded down at her outfit, “the others you’ll see next time you misbehave.”

She continued trailing the feather idly and in random patterns across his limbs and torso – unaware or unconcerned that the blissful pain in his cock was now just pain.

After some minutes she met his eyes, “I’m impressed, husband. Obviously, you need release, but you’re being so patient for me,” she stroked her hand up his shaft and the sound that escaped his lips could be described as none other than a sob of relief.

But she stopped after a few tugs, “I suppose it’s only fair I reward you for your good behavior…”

She climbed up his body until her cunt was resting on his sternum. He could smell her arousal and feel her heat against the skin and hair of his chest. He bucked his hips again, instinctively, even though there was nothing for him to buck up into.

She ignored the pleas of his body and moved to position her center over his face. She was kneeling on his pillow, shimmying her calves and feet under his outstretched arms. She spread her lips, teasing by keeping herself just out of reach, until – _finally_ – she lowered herself to his mouth. It was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted, and an effective distraction from the swelling in his own loins.

Her hands braced on the headboard, “Fuck me with your tongue,” she commanded. He did, bringing his tongue to a point so it could penetrate her swollen hole. She began grinding against him, riding his tongue the way she sometimes rode his cock. She was merciless, unworried that she was almost suffocating him. In that moment, however, he decided being smothered by her hot, wet cunt might be the best way to die.

He wouldn’t find out, however, for she quickly peaked with a litany of curses uncharacteristic of her.

She let herself topple off and for a few moments she laid on the bed, catching her breath. When she straddled him again, this time just below his belly button, he knew sweet relief was in sight…

Or so he thought…

She maintained eye contact as she backed up until his cock was nestled between her plump cheeks. She rocked her hips, stroking him lightly, while her right hand slithered down her belly and between her legs.

Gods, she was glorious. Her fingers curved up inside her while the back of her hand rested on Tywin’s lower abdomen. She ground against them both, each movement sliding her wet slit against the top of his shaft as she rode her own fingers.

Her breaths were coming quickly, but all Tywin could think of was the almost-enough sensation on his cock, “Sansa, _please_!” he spoke low through gritted teeth.

Without stopping her self-pleasuring she used her left hand to shove his torn small clothes into his mouth, “Spit it out, and I’ll leave you tied up like this all night and never let you peak.”

He didn’t take her threat lightly but chose to focus on the promise of a peak if he did as told. It was quite the motivator and knowing he would eventually be permitted completion gave him renewed patience.

Sansa finally screamed out her release, her hips frantically jerking against her hand as her thighs clamped around his hips.

She inched back and raised herself higher, holding herself so just the tip of Tywin’s cock rested against her folds. He tried and failed to suppress a groan.

“You like this, husband?”

He shook his head.

She reached forward and twisted his nipple painfully. He grunted through the pain, careful to keep the gag in his mouth.

“I asked if you like this,” she hissed.

He nodded.

She laughed, “The Great Lion, tied to a bed by his little wife… teased and taunted… with pink ribbons around his cock and his own smallclothes in his mouth… do you think you deserve a release?”

He nodded, not caring about anything else as lust and need made his head immune to all other emotions.

She laughed at what must have looked like an over-eager response, “I think you do, too, husband. But not before you give me one more.”

Without further ado, she impaled herself on him. He cried against the gag as his head lolled to one side. Even with the bindings around his shaft he wasn’t sure he could hold on long enough for her to find her pleasure a third time. He squeezed his eyes shut – one look at the gold braids dancing around her perfect tits would be his undoing.

She rode him hard and fast, something between bouncing and sliding. Every nerve ending in his entire body was on fire, but none so much as those in his cock. Every inch of skin was being tickled in the most torturous way by the inside of her wet channel.

“You want to finish with me, husband?” she asked, breathless.

He nodded, feeling tears prick his eyes he didn’t bother trying to fight. The pressure needed to be released.

“Fuck, Tywin. I want you to fill me up. I want every drop; can you do that for me?”

Her words were bringing him to the brink. Hells, they were dangling him over the precipice. He nodded, hoping she was close.

“Yes, yes!” she cried. He could feel her inner muscles begin to quiver and at the same moment she reached beneath her, finding the bow in the lower ribbon and pulling it loose before repeating the process. The surge that had been building came forth with a vengeance and Tywin no longer cared, he spit the gag out and sobbed her name, over and over, just as she sobbed his. He delivered on her request, pouring rope after rope of semen into her womb, grunting with each emission, his feet twitching, his hips jerking up into her until she collapsed against his chest and he finally stilled, panting but otherwise limp and unmoving.

…

The sky was turning from inky purple to bluish gray when Tywin opened his eyes. It took a few seconds for his brain to remember the prior evening. His recollection was aided by the weight of his wife half draped across him. At some point she must have woken and untied his binds, but he had clearly been dead to the world after the greatest climax of his life.

What should have filled him with oppressive shame only left behind a residual uncertainty, or perhaps fear – that Sansa would think him less of a man. He pondered whether her obvious enjoyment of their little _act_ meant she’d harbor no such feelings. He also admired how skillfully she orchestrated the entire affair – first filling him with feelings of fear and vulnerability before bringing him up and over an arc of utter, unabashed lust and complete submission.

A small but insistent voice told him to wonder why _she_ had enjoyed it so much. It worried him to think her desire to be in control was a manifestation of the years she spent as a prisoner in King’s Landing. The same voice asked him why _he_ enjoyed relinquishing control, and to someone who was literally an enemy little more than a year ago. He didn’t think he’d ever had an answer.

He felt Sansa stir against his chest, “Stop thinking so loudly,” she mumbled against his skin.

He laughed at her clever phrasing and the fact that she knew him so well… that they were so in sync that his mental energy could lull her from sleep.

She seemed to have already drifted back to sleep but he knew what he needed to do – to clear his busy mind and to regain some of his pride. In one smooth motion he rolled her off of him and onto her back, following so he was immediately on top of her. His cock hardened in an instant and he gave her no opportunity to refuse him as he slid into her still wet tunnel. He fucked her as hard as he could while keeping himself low, almost pinning her with his body while his lips pressed against her shoulder.

Gradually the pleasure brought her from her semi-consciousness to full awareness. She panted against his hear, her staccato breathing an indication that she could peak.

“Tywin,” she whispered, “Please…”

“You’ve had enough,” he groaned as he spent himself inside her, denying her a fourth orgasm of the night.

“Hey!” she squeaked.

He laughed and rolled off of her, “I’m going back to sleep wife.”

She huffed and tsked, but it didn’t stop Tywin from falling asleep with a smile on his face.


	54. Who are you?

**Sansa**

All eyes were on her when Varys shared the news. It took all her might not to grin from ear to ear.

All the Freys living at the Twins had been killed by some mysterious and perhaps even _invisible_ foe. As Varys told it, they had been poisoned during a feast by their own patriarch, Walder Frey, though Walder’s body was later identified among the corpses. His face, however, had been separated from his body and tacked to a wall.

“The perpetrators?” Tywin asked, straight-toned as always.

Varys shifted in his seat, “There are only rumors, none of which seem credible.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Varys tipped his head, “The Freys weren’t in open conflict with any other families, thus, people have assumed this crime was in retribution for some past offense.”

Varys’ eyes darted to Sansa. It was no longer difficult not to smirk.

When Tywin only stared at the eunuch, he continued, “The Starks would be the family with the most cause for vengeance against the Freys. One rumor suggests that Robb and Catelyn Stark found a way to exact their revenge from beyond the grave…”

Sansa snorted, “They weren’t given graves.”

Varys looked literally pained, “Of course. It was a manner of speech, and a poor choice of words, my lady.”

“The other rumors?” Tywin asked, agitation clear in his voice.

“That someone hired an assassin from Braavos – a _faceless man.”_

Tywin huffed, “They don’t exist. They themselves are the stuff of rumors.”

“Of course, my lord. But the rumor is the rumor.”

“And who does the rumor suggest paid this assassin?”

Now Varys was sweating. He’d never looked so uncomfortable. “A _living_ Stark. One with access to the funds needed to hire such a man.”

Sansa’s eyes widened as everyone looked to her again. Lord Mace, Ser Garlan, Pycelle, Tyrion, Jaime, Kevan, and Tywin.

“I didn’t!” she defended herself.

“No one is suggesting you did, Lady Sansa,” Tyrion offered gently.

Sansa tried to maintain her composure; she couldn’t be theatrical among this group of men, “What of the surviving Freys? If they believe this rumor, will they seek retribution of their own?”

Varys raised his brows, “As far as I know, the only surviving male Frey is your goodbrother, Lord Emmon, who was at Riverrun during the massacre, along with his sons.”

Tywin nodded, “With Stevron Frey dead, Emmon is the heir to the Crossing anyway.”

Sansa nodded, knowing this to be true. Emmon was Genna’s husband. He was a very old man, with familial ties to Tywin in addition to a pledge of loyalty. Sansa had never met him but got the impression from hearing Genna talk that he was not the most cunning Frey, by far.

Tywin took a deep breath, “Emmon is no threat to us, even if he were the type to believe such nonsense. Nonetheless, it won’t do to have these rumors spreading about the Hand’s wife. An unfounded accusation of murder is slander. Slander is a crime. Kevan – have the tongue cut out of anyone voicing these accusations, by orders of King Tommen.”

Tywin held her eyes as he made this proclamation, daring her to challenge him. She wouldn’t; not here. She didn’t want to think of the poor men and women who’d lose their tongues for doing something as innocent as repeating gossip, but Tywin had a reputation to be maintained.

“Any other news?” Tywin asked without breaking eye contact.

Varys’ tone was more relaxed now that he was done relaying news so personal to Sansa and Tywin, “Yes, Lord Hand. You asked me to look into the status of the Faith Militant. While we all know their numbers had risen steadily during the previous king’s reign, my spies have uncovered no sign of them recently. Forgive me for saying so, but King Joffrey’s… lack of popularity… helped their cause. The new regime is well liked, and it seems the people no longer support the _extreme_ faction of the Faith.”

Kevan shook his head, “They couldn’t have all simply disappeared.”

Varys nodded, “I would tend to agree, but they are no longer organizing in public. No doubt their numbers have dwindled considerably. Desperate men are drawn to such organizations. Men aren’t as desperate as they were just over a year ago.” Varys dipped his head toward Mace and Sansa.

Sansa was ashamed to have heard very little after that. Tyrion spoke of the Crown’s coffers. Garlan spoke of progress in rebuilding the royal fleet. Mace spoke of the census soon to be under way. But all Sansa could think about was who might want to kill the Freys. Had one of their new Northern allies done it in an act of revenge on behalf of their former king? But how had anyone even gotten into the fortress and in a position to kill so many men?

The meeting was called to a close, but Tywin asked Tyrion to stay behind. Once again Sansa had to school her features. She wanted to give Tywin a smile to encourage him, but he would no doubt interpret it as patronizing. _And Gods forbid one of the other men see!_

Instead she walked out with Jaime and invited him to join her for tea, much to his seemingly pleasant surprise. He and Tyrion dined with her and Tywin on a fairly frequent basis, but she and Jaime rarely socialized with only one another.

When the wet nurse brought over a full and happy Jo, Sansa held her only a minute before passing her over to Jaime. Sansa had found Jaime to be a natural with the babe, even if he looked awkward holding her the first few times. Now he held her confidently in the crook of his maimed arm, making goo-goo noises and funny faces to match. Sansa smiled as she watched him, though it was always tinged with sadness that he hadn’t had the opportunity to father his own children. She hoped he would get to be a father again someday, this time to children he could acknowledge.

“Jaime, what do you know of this “faceless man” that Varys mentioned?”

Jaime shrugged, “ _The Faceless Men_ … it’s rumored to be a network of assassins, operating out of Braavos, that can kill easily because they can don the appearance of another person, quite literally, by taking the person’s face and wearing it.”

Sansa’s eyes widened, “That’s absurd! A person is more than a face! If someone put my face on Sandor’s body, would anyone call him Lady Lannister?!”

Jaime laughed, “I don’t claim to know how it works, or even _if_ it really works. I only know that rumors don’t survive for so many generations without having _some_ kernel of truth.”

“Mmm… like the wights and White Walkers. Yes… perhaps this gild of assassins is skilled in the arts of disguise and imitation.”

“That would make more sense. Why do you ask?”

Sansa shrugged, “I just wondered how anyone could have infiltrated the Twins so effectively. I thought it was all but impenetrable.”

“Perhaps during war, but like any other keep it has people coming in and out. Workers. Deliveries. Visitors. It’s surprisingly easy to sneak in or out of a place.”

Sansa snorted, “You could have told me that two years ago.”

Jaime’s eyes flew open. Sansa waved him off, “I’m joking, Jaime. I’m quite happy with the way things turned out, though I won’t lie and say two years ago I wouldn’t have wanted to leave.” Unbidden thoughts of Sandor offering to help her escape on the night of the battle came back to her. She didn’t call on the memory as often as she used to, though part of her always wondered what would have happened to them had they fled. Most likely they’d be dead…

“I understand,” Jaime spoke gently, “and you truly are happy?”

Sansa smiled genuinely, “Yes, I am. I only fear for what’s to come… whether this dead army truly will threaten the realm of men. It’s been so nice having Jon here. Just thinking of him leaving nearly brings tears to my eyes.”

Jaime rolled his eyes, “Well, I know it’s small consolation, but Tyrion and I will still be here to annoy you like proper brothers. Or sons. Or whatever we are to you.”

Sansa smiled, “You are family; that simple. What about you, Jaime?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you happy?”

His smile faded as if she asked him something thoroughly ludicrous, “I… of course I am.”

Sansa sighed, “I know you’re happy in your role. I know you’re happy to serve and protect Tommen, to have been reunited with your brother and father after your captivity. But are you… _content_?”

Jaime shook his head, “Honestly, you’re the first person who’s ever asked me that. And I haven’t a clue how to answer.”

Sansa leaned back, knowing he’d open up to her in time.

“I’m not getting any younger, Sansa. The person I’d built my life around, rightly or wrongly, is gone. I’m making progress at training, but I’ll never be as good with a sword as I once was.”

Sansa nodded, “Jaime, I imagine the things a boy wants are quite different from what a man wants. You joined the Kingsguard when you were a boy. It’s okay to want the things you spurned back then. I won’t speak for your father, but if you wished to reconsider taking your place at Casterly Rock, I wouldn’t be insulted. My firstborn son could be your heir if that would make you feel better about it.”

Jaime clasped her hand and smiled kindly, “Sansa, you are the dearest person to say that. I admit it has more appeal to me than it ever did before, but it’s not what calls to me.”

“So what does?”

He lifted his good hand, “I have no idea. Something… _adventurous_? Sometimes I envy Lady Brienne – out there searching far and wide for your sister. Of course, when she sleeps with a rock for a pillow and pine needles for a mattress, I’m sure she envies me my feather bed. But she seems so… so…”

Sansa smiled, “Free?”

Jaime chuckled, “Exactly. There’s freedom in having a mission. It allows everything else to fade into the background. It forces you to not wallow in self-pity all day.”

“Would you find Brienne and join her quest if you could?”

Jaime looked up at her, stunned again, “You know…” he sighed, “No… there are too many people here I care about. But if there weren’t… if I had no commitments, no family… then yes, I’d find Brienne and search for your little sister.”

Sansa frowned, “I’d miss your presence, Jaime, but if you think it might make you happy, you should do it.”

Jaime appeared to be considering her suggestion, until a resigned look came upon him. Sansa knew not to push. She cleared her throat instead, “Do you ever hear from her – Lady Brienne?”

“Occasionally she writes with an update as to where she is, where she has searched,” Jaime smiled, clearly remembering his one-time companion favorably.

Sansa smiled, “You know, I only met Lady Brienne briefly, but she was clearly a special woman.”

Jaime’s brow furrowed, “How do you mean?”

Sansa shrugged, “Strong, independent. I remember wishing I had been born like her. Like Arya. You know – _tough_. Strong. With a fighting spirit. But Lady Brienne had a certain solemnness about her that was rather admirable. She seemed to be a very honorable person… I hope she is happy, and that she feels as fulfilled by the quest as you think you would be.”

Jaime smiled, “I’m sure she does. And yes, you’ve got her pegged right. She is the most serious person I’ve ever met but there is a… a vulnerability there. A softness I think she keeps hidden.”

Sansa chuckled, “I suppose everyone that looks fierce has a hidden soft side. And those who look soft have a hidden fierce side.”

Jaime’s eyes widened, “Well you’re certainly living proof of that!”

**Tyrion**

Had minutes passed or hours since either man spoke? Tyrion wasn’t sure.

His father spoke words that at first did not register any particular meaning…

_I am not Tywin Lannister’s son._

_I am the Mad King’s son._

_I am half lion, half dragon._

Once the meaning and significance penetrated his mind, a hundred questions were born.

_Why did Father raise me as his instead of drowning me in an ocean?_

_Has he told Jaime? Sansa?_

_Why did he not start a war then and there against the Mad King? Why did he wait until Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon, and Ned Stark raised a rebellion?_

_Who am I now?_

Tyrion would normally pace the room with a wine goblet in hand under such circumstances. Today he felt fused with the chair beneath his stunted body.

_Would Mother have lived had it not been for the Mad King’s crime? Would I have been born later, into a different body – a true son of Tywin and Joanna Lannister?_

_What does Father see when he looks at me?_

_Has Daenerys figured out who I am? Daenerys – my… half-sister._

_Is this why I have a bond with Viserion? But if that’s so, then why does Jon Snow have a bond with Rhaegal? Wait…_

This was the first of the flurry of questions littering his mind that Tyrion voiced, “Jon Snow?”

Tywin arched a brow. It might have been praise, “No one but Sansa and I know – in addition to Jon himself.”

“He is my half-brother, too? Another bastard of the Mad King? Then why would Ned Stark have adopted him as his own?”

Tywin shook his head, “He is your… _nephew_. The only surviving son of Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Tyrion felt his eyes bulge, “He is a Targaryen prince?!”

“A Targaryen bastard that Rhaegar got on Lyanna Stark. He is Sansa’s cousin, not her half-brother.”

Tyrion sighed, “Poor Sansa. Poor Jon.”

The brow lifted again, this time looking like derision, “Poor Tyrion?”

Tyrion shook his head slowly, “I… I don’t know. Perhaps self-pity will come soon, but now I only feel…”

“Feel what?” Tywin asked after a beat.

Tyrion shrugged, “Like I finally make sense.”

Tywin appraised him with a hum.

After more time passed, Tyrion let out a laugh that wasn’t entirely humorless, “You had every reason to kill me at birth. Your beloved wife wasn’t there to stop you. I certainly wouldn’t have been the first dwarf child discarded like a crippled foal.”

Another hum came from Tywin’s throat. Sometimes Tyrion wondered if it didn’t sound like a wolf’s growl.

“You are still a Lannister. And still…” another growl, “my son.”

This time Tyrion’s chuckle was completely mirthful, “Do you mean that Father? Or did your sweet wife tell you to say it?”

Tywin huffed, “I meant it. Do not mock me, Tyrion.”

Anger couldn’t conceal the sincerity in Tywin’s tone, leaving Tyrion feeling ashamed. Tywin Lannister had raised the dwarf non-son that killed his wife. He raised the living embodiment of the Mad King’s personal affront to Tywin and Joanna, a wife he loved so dearly that he didn’t remarry until three decades later.

More thoughts swirled through his head. Deeper thoughts, that required careful consideration, but that left an overwhelming feeling of something _divine._

More minutes passed before Tyrion spoke again, “Do you believe in fate, Father?”

Tywin’s eyes betrayed annoyance and confusion in equal measure.

“Fate,” Tyrion repeated, “Destiny. A path laid out by the Gods. A series of events that must happen in order to make other, more important events happen. Do you believe in it?”

“No,” Tywin stated conclusively.

Tyrion smiled, “I don’t suppose you would. You are a controlled man, aren’t you, Father? Life is a cyvasse game to you, isn’t? The very realm is your board, and all its inhabitants your game pieces. Mind you, I mean that as a compliment. So many potential moves, so many potential outcomes… Surely you leave nothing to the whim of the Gods. Up until today, I may have agreed with you, only now I’m not so certain…

What are the odds that three Targaryens remain – trueborn or bastard – and three dragons live? What are the odds that these fire-breathing beasts are approaching maturity as an unprecedented, yet fire-vulnerable threat approaches the Wall from the far north? What are the odds that Jon, Daenerys, and me survived up to this point? If Jon Snow’s true parentage was ever found out, Robert Baratheon would have found a way to kill him. Yet the young man lives, having survived attacks from Wildlings and wights.

As for me, if Tywin Lannister was the cruel lion everyone claims he is, he would have killed his wife’s deformed bastard at birth… if not you than surely there were plenty of other opportunities for me to die. I was nearly thrown through the moon door at the Eyrie, if not that an opportunistic and quite capable sellsword had been present. I was nearly killed during the Battle of the Blackwater, then later nearly succumbed to a plague that took the lives of men and women more robust than I…

And Daenerys… she has survived assassination attempts on her life, being a child-bride to beastly war lord… walking across a dessert… walking through fire… being captured by a volatile Ironborn invader… falling into the metaphorical lion pit… All three of us have survived against incredible odds. Three dragon riders, for three dragons…

And what events would have been altered if not for the Mad King’s crime against Joanna Lannister? If she had lived, how might our present be different? Perhaps Cersei wouldn’t have married Robert. Perhaps Jaime wouldn’t have joined the Kingsguard. Certainly Sansa Stark wouldn’t be your wife, had Joanna lived to this day, and how would _that_ have changed things? Would we still be at war with the North? Would you have never met Jon Snow, to hear of this army of the dead? Would Joanna have successfully staved off thirty thousand Ironborn soldiers while the city was at its most vulnerable?”

Tyrion was literally out of breath. He’d never spoken so long to his father, uninterrupted. Tywin Lannister listened to his every word, though Tyrion couldn’t tell whether he was moved by his speech or wondering if he didn’t inherit his real father’s madness.

Tyrion took advantage of the silence that followed his rant to ponder his situation again. Perhaps he should be upset to learn he wasn’t Tywin Lannister’s true son. Perhaps he should be angry about the crime committed against his mother. Perhaps in time he would be both of those things, but right now he found peace the likes of which he’d never felt. He was at peace with the fact that he was meant to be exactly who he was – a son of Aerys II Targaryen. A dragonrider. A dragon.

“Sansa seems to believe there is some affection between you and Daenerys,” Tywin’s stern voice doused Tyrion’s peace with cold reality.

Tyrion snorted, “Always firmly rooted in the practical, aren’t you Father?”

Tywin didn’t speak. He was waiting for an answer.

Tyrion sighed, “I feel no shame in admitting my attraction to her. She is a beautiful and strong woman, and much closer to my stature than the average woman. I will admit I’ve felt a bond with her that is markedly different from the platonic kinship I feel toward Lady Sansa or Lady Shireen or most of the other ladies I’ve met…”

“And you still feel this bond? This attraction?”

Tyrion nodded, “You mean now that I know she’s my half-sister? I suppose attraction is not easily extinguished, Father. My sincere apologies for possessing the instincts of a man, even if I’m only half a man.”

Another growl sounded in Tywin’s throat, “Does she return your affection?”

Tyrion looked to his lap, “I thought she did. Perhaps she does, though it’s hard for me to fathom what a Targaryen Princess would see in a stunted lion… er, half-lion.”

Tywin nodded, “Perhaps the same thing a Northern Princess would see in an old lion.”

Tyrion’s head snapped up to meet his father’s unreadable gaze. Never would Tyrion have expected his father to feel inadequate in comparison to his wife, much less to admit such a feeling out loud. For not the first time in his life, though, Tyrion realized there was another side to his father. One guarded as thoroughly as the mines of Casterly Rock.

“You saved Sansa, Father.”

Tywin snorted, “From a situation she should not have had to be saved from. Nonetheless, did you not also save Daenerys?”

“Pardon?”

“You convinced Sansa she should be spared; that with Jon Snow’s warning, a fire breathing beast and its master should not be discarded without careful consideration.”

Tyrion shook his head, “Sansa would not have killed her.”

Tywin let out a rare chuckle, “Yes she would have.”

Tyrion wasn’t sure what to make of his father’s confident proclamation, but he supposed it was only logical to assume Sansa would have taken extreme measures. After all, she _did_ take extreme measures…

Tywin straightened his jacket as he stood and rounded the table to stand beside Tyrion, though he kept his gaze straight ahead, “I’m overdue in commending you, Tyrion.”

Tyrion looked up, mouth agape, “What?”

Tywin breathed deeply through his nose, “Twice you’ve saved the city. I won’t analyze why both times involved wildfire, particularly in light of my full realization of your parentage; instead I will just say that… your actions have not gone unnoticed.”

Tyrion wanted to laugh at the unlikelihood of his father (not his father) praising him. But Tywin Lannister had just spoken earnest words that were obviously difficult to utter. Tyrion would not repay him with insolence or humor. Instead he nodded, “I only did my duty – to my king, my people, and my family. For the record, your wife deserves all the credit.”

“I am aware of Sansa’s role. Genna and others have told—”

“Genna and others weren’t there to witness it firsthand. I only know from Ser Andre’s retelling of events, but per his words she was… _masterful.”_

“Oh?” Tywin asked, clearly trying to minimize his interest.

Tyrion smiled but withheld his amusement, “Why don’t you ask the man yourself? I think it may be wise – for your personal safety, that is – to know just how cunning and fierce your lion-wolf is…”

**Sansa**

After Jaime departed, Sansa put Jo down for a nap and sat at her husband’s desk. She liked working here, even though she had plenty of other surfaces on which to pen her letters.

She was drafting letters to some of the Northern houses. She thought it would be wise to address the massacre of the Freys directly. She would also make inquiries as to how the lords and ladies were faring. Were they well provisioned for winter? Were they following Tywin’s suggestion to prepare their armories and men for battle?

She also wondered whether she should mention the Crown’s alliance with Daenerys Targaryen. Once rumors reached the northern houses – if they hadn’t already – some might wonder if Daenerys was making a play for the throne. Sansa worried that some might prefer to see a Targaryen queen than a Lannister/Baratheon king.

She decided she would address the matter, but sprinkle in some reminders of what Daenerys’ father did to the North’s former Warden, Rickard Stark, and his heir Brandon. Of course, she wouldn’t imply Daenerys was like her father – that would only hurt their efforts to get the Northmen to fight alongside Daenerys and her dragons in the battles to come.

Sansa nibbled her lower lip as she considered her words for this part of the letter carefully. She would ask Tywin to review it, of course, but she wanted it as close to perfect as possible before his eyes scanned it.

> _By now you may have heard rumors that a daughter of King Aerys II Targaryen is living in the capital. I owe it to you, my lord, to fill you in on the truth in detail._
> 
> _Lady Daenerys Targaryen, a trueborn daughter of the late Aerys II, was brought to King’s Landing as a hostage of the unsavory Ironborn leader, Euron Greyjoy. In Lord Greyjoy’s possession were also three young dragons belonging to Lady Daenerys. As you have heard by now, the Ironborn attack was successfully thwarted. I am glad to report that the people of King’s Landing never had to experience the savagery of an Ironborn raid that us northerners know too well._
> 
> _Acting in the best interest of the realm, given the impending threat in the far North, King Tommen extended mercy to Lady Daenerys, under the counsel of his uncle Tyrion Lannister and myself._
> 
> _Many may (rightfully) question the wisdom of this decision. I, more than most others, know how much pain Targaryens have brought to Westeros since invading our lands centuries ago. I grew up well aware of how Lords Rickard and Brandon Stark were unjustly and inhumanely executed by Daenerys’ own father._
> 
> _But I have also learned that we are not defined by the mistakes of our parents – nor are we destined to repeat them. Lady Daenerys has demonstrated the ability to learn from the past mistakes of herself and her ancestors, and for this reason I choose to trust her. She admires King Tommen, recognizing his merciful and just nature make him good for the realm. To further assure you that she poses little threat to King Tommen and his loyal subjects, know that there exists no fleet large enough to ferry her army from Essos to Westeros – if that army would continue to follow Daenerys. Even if such a fleet existed, her army still would pose little threat, being it is a summer army and not familiar with castle siege._
> 
> _I do not fault Daenerys for seeking the throne when it would mean usurping a man wholly unfit to wear the crown – Joffrey Baratheon – but I do commend her for recognizing that King Tommen is not his brother. Lady Daenerys, it seems, seeks peace and prosperity for the realm and recognizes she cannot deliver that alone. Instead she has chosen to endorse King Tommen and House Lannister. Until she gives us cause for doubt, we welcome Lady Daenerys as a guest and ally of the Crown._
> 
> _Rest assured, my lord, a wolf forgives but doesn’t forget. Your safety and well-being, and the safety and well-being of everyone in Westeros, continues to be the singular priority of myself, my husband, and my king._

Sansa smiled, pleased with her first attempt. She stretched her arms and stood, venturing out to the balcony. The sun was warm but the breeze cool on this autumn day. As she let the afternoon sun warm her face, she felt rather like a cat seeking a square of light on the floor. As she enjoyed the cool air against her cheeks she felt like a wolf, inviting the coming of winter.

She heard the door swing open but did not turn. It had been hours since the council meeting ended, and Sansa knew Tywin had finally spoken to Tyrion. If the conversation had not gone well, Tywin would need space to brood. If it had gone well, she would find out soon enough.

She was surprised that Tywin’s footsteps immediately approached her. He spun her around with a firm grip on her upper arm and muffled the sound of her yelp with his lips. Urgent, passionate, demanding. He ravaged her with rough, burning kisses.

“Tywin, what’s gotten into you?” she managed to whisper when he abandoned her lips for her neck.

“You,” was his cryptic answer.

When minutes later he claimed her on the desk she’d just toiled at she didn’t know what to make of it but wouldn’t complain. She liked being in charge during their encounters, but she equally enjoyed being _taken_. She loved seeing all of Tyiwn’s passion come out through his kisses and thrusts. She loved seeing the lion set loose, feeling like she was being claimed by her mate.

She had not nearly enough time to climax before Tywin spilled himself with a guttural moan. After coming down from his high he pulled her to sitting, his now flaccid cock slipping free. He smoothed back her hair and stared at her in apparent wonderment. She was certain she reflected back only confusion.

“Where did you come from?” he mumbled, more to himself than her.

Sansa smiled, “Please tell me you didn’t try to outdrink Tyrion… that’s a dangerous game. Then again, if this is the result…”

Tywin chuckled lightly, “Not a sip. Why would I settle for wine when I could get drunk on you?”

Sansa burst out laughing, “What in the Seven have you done with my husband?!”

He accepted her teasing more gracefully than she would have expected of him and when he carried her to their bedchamber and tossed her onto the mattress she decided not to wonder where this playful lion had been hiding all this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this didn't read like too much of a "filler" chapter, but I needed to get some dominoes lined up here.


	55. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More dominoes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated this in so long. This is my most complicated work because of how many "main characters" I have and many of them with POVs.

**Sandor**

“I’m going to regret this,” Tywin mumbled almost inaudibly. His sentiment was clearer than his voice. And the sentiment was anger. Possibly directed at himself, definitely directed at his youngest son for enjoying this far too much.

Sansa peered up at her husband, a barely-there smile on her lips, “Where’s your sense of adventure, my lord?” it was as close to teasing him as she ever got; in public at least.

Sandor didn’t expect the man to respond, but he did: “Deeply buried, where it belongs. Hence the reason I’ve survived this long.”

Sandor suppressed an amused snort at the Old Lion’s rare humor.

While preparations were being made by the others, Sandor pondered how much had transpired in the past moons…

Lady Joelyn passed her half-year mark. The precocious little tot was all smiles and giggles and Sandor had witnessed how easily she made a fool of grown men. Jaime and Tyrion were her personal court jesters. The eunuch Varys let his bored countenance crack and his eyes sparkle when in the child’s presence. Even Andre, who Sandor had come to respect more than most, loved to bring the babe to cackles by playing a game called _peek-a-boo_. Sansa didn’t shield her beloved child from _lowly_ retainers, but rather showed her off with pride. She frequently found excuses to plop little Jo into Sandor or Andre’s arms when they were accompanying their lady around the keep, then would smile impishly at the sight it made. Sandor knew he looked like an aurochs cradling the babe like she was a priceless glass artifact, and Andre and Sansa did a poor job hiding their amusement at his discomfort. Only the ever-stoic Tywin Lannister could keep a straight face in the child’s presence, though Sandor suspected it was a different matter behind closed doors.

Before that, there was the revelation of Jon and Tyrion’s births. Sandor wasn’t privy to the details but was among the few who knew that both men were half-Targaryen. Sandor expected Daenerys to incinerate them with dragonfire at her earliest opportunity, but she didn’t. Instead she seemed to welcome both men as her kin, after getting past her initial shock and disbelief. Apparently, if the dragons accepted a person, she accepted them as well. Now she seemed not just accepting but generally pleased that she had relatives. Like Sansa, she’d resigned herself to being the last of her name.

Jon Snow had stayed in the capital. With regular, official communication from the Wall, everyone knew the dead army was still well to the north, and Jon decided that developing a bond with the dragon he would someday ride took precedent over reestablishing himself in the north.

And that _someday_ was today. Daenerys, Tyrion, and Jon oversaw the saddling of their respective _mounts_. Drogon was the length of six men, and his brothers were only slightly smaller.

Tywin, Jaime, and Sansa stood in a sheltered alcove of the dragon pits along with their guards, which included Sandor and Andre.

Tywin took a deep breath and turned to face Sandor directly, something he only did when issuing an important order, “If this goes poorly, you will make use of that oversized body by shielding my wife from dragonfire.”

Sandor swallowed and nodded, hoping that would not be the case. Sansa passed him a sympathetic glance.

The beasts seemed offended by the saddles but reluctantly obeyed their mother’s soothing words. Meanwhile, in the alcove, Sansa did the same for her men, “All will be well,” she stated calmly but confidently.

The three riders mounted their dragons. Only Daenerys approached the alcove, her great black beast crawling on its elbows.

“Lord and Lady Lannister, Ser Jaime. As discussed, we shall fly to Dragonstone, let our children hunt, then return. We should not be more than two days.”

“See that you are not,” Tywin answered sternly.

Daenerys cocked an eyebrow but nodded her assent. With a word Sandor didn’t understand, three dragons alighted at once and took to the sky heading east. A collective sigh of relief was heard.

“I’m going to regret this,” Tywin mumbled again, turning on his heels to signal it was time to return to the keep. Four Redcloaks led the way while the rest fell in behind the three Lannisters.

Sansa spoke low but Sandor was able to make out her words, “Out of curiosity, my lord, how deep would one need to dig to find this sense of adventure you’ve buried?”

A growl from Tywin and a chuckle from Jaime were the only responses she received.

**Sansa**

Jon paced their dining chamber, animatedly recounting his journey, while Tywin and Sansa watched on in amused silence. Well, amused for Sansa, wary for Tywin. Jon was always reserved, particularly in Tywin’s presence, but today he was downright giddy.

“It was incredible… like nothing I’ve ever felt. It was like Rhaegal was in my head. I could control him with my thoughts.”

“That is wonderful, Jon,” Sansa smiled.

He didn’t seem to hear her words, “I can’t even describe it; the closest I’ve felt is with Ghost, but this was… different. Wolves are instinctual creatures, but dragons have almost human-level intelligence.”

Tywin was uninterested in hearing about this mental connection, “What did you speak of with your aunt when you made camp?”

Jon shook his head in prolonged wonderment, “Tyrion and I rather sounded like little boys, I’m afraid. Daenerys listened graciously to our recounting of things she’s experienced herself more than once.”

“That’s all?” Tywin asked.

Jon stilled and looked up at him, “What do you mean, my lord?”

Tywin sighed through his nose, “Did she speak of any of her… aspirations?”

Jon shook his head vehemently, “No. I understand your reticence to trust her, my lord, but if she is conspiring against you, she’s made no mention of it to us.”

Tywin hummed thoughtfully while Jon took his seat.

“If I may, my lord… with your blessing, of course, I would like to fly north of the Wall to survey the Night King’s army. With or without Daenerys and Tyrion, at your discretion.”

“Does the Night’s Watch not have scouts for this purpose?”

“They do, aye, but the lands there are so vast. Some are wholly uncharted. We have no real concept of how large the total population of wights is, other than that it is in the tens of thousands, at least. This I know from my time living among the Free Folk.”

“This seems like a reckless mission, given we still cannot say with certainty that this Night King means to attack the Wall at all.”

Jon nodded, “I have another purpose, my lord… you see, there are thousands of Free Folk living in various clans. The dead army has forced them further south with each passing year. They are desperate to get over the Wall. Their attempts at scaling it have increased.”

“You mean to attack these Wildlings with dragonfire? Drive them back from the Wall?”

“On the contrary, my lord, I believe it would be in the best interest of the realm to… well… to make peace with them.”

Sansa gasped, “Jon! The Northern lords have been at odds with the Wildlings for… well, forever!”

“Indeed, sister, and it’s time for that to change. Every man, woman, and child living north of the Wall will become another wight, sooner or later. If we have to face this army someday, why allow it to add to its numbers if we can prevent it?”

“What would you propose?” Tywin asked.

“There are plenty of lands just south of the Wall. The Gift, coming to mind.”

Sansa shook her head, “Jon, if King Tommen orders the Night’s Watch to let the Wildlings through, and I allow them to settle The Gift, we will lose the loyalty of the Northern lords.”

Jon nodded, “I understand, Sansa. That is why they must be convinced it is in their best interest. The Free Folk will have to abide by the rules of the land, of course.”

Tywin arched a brow in challenge, “And bend the knee to King Tommen?”

Jon snorted, “My lord, they will die before kneeling. A promise to abide by the rules of the land, and to fight beside the rest of us when – _if –_ the day comes, will have to be enough.”

Sansa sighed, “Jon, with all due respect, you are no longer the son of Ned Stark, nor the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. You speak as if you can fly north and negotiate this armistice, but neither the Northern lords nor the Free Folk nor the Watch will respect your opinion on the matter.”

Jon nodded sadly, “Indeed, which is why I mean for this to be a simple reconnaissance mission. We will need _definitive_ knowledge of the threat to convince the Northern lords. Later, we will need to know where the clans are so we can meet with them. With that information, King Tommen or you, Lord Tywin, can treat with the various parties. And is Sansa not technically Wardeness of the North? Lord Manderly is only acting as Warden since Sansa cannot be in two places at the same time.”

“If I exert that authority, Jon, they will resent me.”

“Perhaps. But what will they do about it? Start a war during winter? No – we both know they won’t do that. And by the time winter is over they’ll have realized the merits of these actions.”

“Or not,” Sansa huffed, “If the Free Folk cause trouble, they will blame me. And if this war between the living and dead never happens, the decision will never be justified.”

“Then you will _own_ responsibility, and they will respect you more for it.”

Tywin snorted, “Own responsibility? You mean by using the Crown’s armies to rid the vast northern lands of all of these Wildlings? That is a nearly impossible mission.”

Jon ran a hand through his curly black locks, “I understand all of your concerns. I do. I realize that without seeing this threat up close – and one wight in a crate is not what I’m referring to – that you can’t possibly understand. Seeing this force – the power it has… I admit there is now only one thing I fear – and that is the day this army breaches the Wall. When that day comes it will not matter if a man is a Southron, Northman, Westerman, or Free Folk. Lion, wolf, dragon, or stag. The man fighting beside you will be your ally and best friend simply because he is _breathing_.”

Sansa looked to Tywin, “Perhaps a compromise. A contingency plan. Should this dead army advance on the Wall, the Wildlings will be let through. I believe, with some convincing, the Northern lords will be agreeable if they know it will only be done as a last resort.”

Tywin nodded and Jon let out a long sigh of relief, “Thank you… thank you both. And what of my other request?”

Tywin pulled at his stock tie, “It is reasonable to have eyes on an enemy, but I am not comfortable letting Daenerys leave on such an extended journey.”

Sansa nodded, “Still, she could have flown to Essos yesterday. She didn’t.”

“That is not my only concern; I do not want her becoming a _hero_ to the Northmen. Particularly if we may soon be falling out of their good graces.”

“Will the dragon fly with you alone?” Sansa asked.

Jon nodded, “I think so. He listens to his mother, but I feel like I alone am his master.”

Sansa chuckled, “Like every child. Mother is obeyed; father is feared.”

Jon lifted his eyes and smiled brazenly, “Speak for yourself.”

Sansa felt a pang of guilt, though she knew that was not Jon’s intent, “It wasn’t you, Jon. It’s what you represented. Still, I wish Father had confided in her. Just her. She would have taken his secret to the grave and would have stopped resenting you.”

Jon shrugged, “Perhaps he knew it was better if she treated me like a bastard. Embracing me would have been more suspicious.”

Sansa clasped his hand, “Still, I wish you could have been spared the pain of her resentment.”

Jon smiled warmly, “Everything happens for a reason, sister. Pain molds us all. Look what pain made _you_ , Sansa.”

Sansa laughed, “I’d rather it hadn’t. Ignorance is bliss. And pain is… _painful_!”

Jon threw his head back, “But I like you better this way. You used to be an annoying little shit!” After the words fell out of his mouth his eyes widened to saucers and he looked to Tywin, seemingly expecting to be relieved of his head any moment.

Sansa laughed off his concern, “I thought Arya was the annoying one.”

Deeming his life safe for the moment Jon turned back to her, “You were both annoying. But you’re right – Arya was the annoying little shit; you were the annoying little _lady_. Too perfect by half.”

Sansa tipped her head in mock arrogance, “Thank you!”

Tywin merely rolled his eyes and looked about to say something in admonishment when a knock sounded on the door.

“Enter,” Tywin called out.

Addam popped his head in, “Lord Hand, the King has summoned you and Lady Lannister to the small council room.”

“For?”

“It seems a visitor has arrived – a maester’s apprentice from Oldtown. He claims to have important information for the king… he also, eh… claims to be a member of the Night’s Watch.”

Jon stood so quickly his chair fell over, “Sam?!”

**Tywin**

“So the efficacy of this material against the wights is a proven fact?” Tywin asked, not for the first time.

Jon and Sam nodded vigorously.

“And this material can be found _only_ at Dragonstone?”

Sam nodded again. The portly young man was sweating profusely in Tywin’s presence, and Tywin could only wonder how he had survived at the Wall. Even more unlikely, how he could have been sired by Randall Tarly.

“Your grace… Lord Hand… Lady Lannister… Lord Tyr—”

“Sam,” Jon smiled, “Just speak your mind.”

“Right. My lords and lady… this material, _dragonglass_ , if the texts I’ve read are accurate, is abundant in the caverns beneath Dragonstone. There could be other hoards in Westeros, or more likely Essos, but this is the only source of which I’m aware.”

Tywin nodded curtly, “Very well. The small council and his grace King Tommen will take this information under advisement.”

Tommen smiled at the chubby man, “Maester Tarly, please stay and rest as our honored guest.”

Sam blushed an unnatural shade of red, “Your grace, you honor me, but I have not traveled alone. We will find lodging in the city. Of course, in case I can be of further service, I’ll send word of my location once we’re settled.”

“Nonsense,” Tommen beamed proudly, “You and your companions are all welcome. How many are you? I’ll have it arranged.”

If the man’s face got any redder Tywin might duck under the table for fear of an explosion, “Uh, your grace, I traveled with a… female acquaintance. And her young son. I’ve been their protector, of a sort.”

Tywin repressed a snort. This man couldn’t protect anything but a slice of pie. Tywin waited impatiently for the matter of lodgings to be settled and the young maester to be led out by a steward.

Once alone with Tommen, Sansa, Jon, and his sons, Tywin finally spoke, “The manpower to set up a mining operation is considerable. This is an expenditure of resource that is unwise with winter approaching. And we still don’t know that this army will pose any real threat.”

Tyrion shook his head, “But if the threat _does_ manifest, unpreparedness will very likely be our downfall.”

“I appreciate the expenditure,” Sansa added, “But we still have an under-employed population. Can we at least send some men to explore these caves? Map them?”

Tywin sighed, “We can. We can also see how easy it is to extract the material and to forge it into weapons.”

Jaime nodded, “A small operation that can be scaled up if the need arises.”

“Who would oversee this operation, grandfather?”

“Someone we trust. We only have a small host of Lannister men there now, holding the island… Kevan knows mining operations.”

Sansa hesitated before speaking, “If it came to needing to quickly assemble a large workforce there, it seems we might be able to kill two birds with one stone.”

“Elaborate, my lady.”

She tapped her fingers nervously on the table, “There are thousands of Wildlings looking for shelter south of the Wall… no doubt accustomed to physical labor…”

“Let these so-called _Free Folk_ take over Dragonstone?!” Tywin near-shouted.

Sansa held her ground, “Without ships they wouldn’t pose a threat to the mainland. And with three dragons at our disposal, perhaps Dragonstone isn’t all that impenetrable, if we were to need to claim it back.”

“Let Daenerys go to Dragonstone,” Tyrion interrupted the rebuttal Tywin was about to spew.

“Are you mad?”

“You’re looking for a way to test her allegiance, are you not, Father? And dare I say, she’s looking for a way to know that you won’t execute her at the earliest convenience… consider it a mutual show of faith. Send Kevan there with small contingent of laborers, servants, and guards. He and Daenerys can oversee the operations.”

“And if she simply flies back to Essos?”

“Then Kevan will send word to us, and Jon and I will be on the next dragons to Essos.”

Sansa pursed her lips, “It might gain some more of her loyalty – allowing her to return to her ancestral home… and Jon can go north on his reconnaissance mission while she’s gone. That way we will not have to have the unpleasant, ‘we trust Jon to leave, but not you’ conversation.”

Tywin drummed his fingers on his knee, considering all the angles. Eventually, they _would_ need to determine where Daenerys’ true allegiance lay. Giving her this freedom would tell them just that. The risk of her claiming Dragonstone was low – she would have only one dragon and no armies nor ships to defend the castle. The risk of her returning to Essos was greater – but she still wouldn’t procure a fleet there anytime soon. More likely she’d go into hiding, bide her time and try to forge new alliances. During that time, Jon and Tyrion would be able to find her – Tyrion had described the bond the dragons had with one another, like a lion that always knows where its mate is.

Tommen surprised everyone by making the proclamation that Tywin was about to utter, “I agree with the plan to send Uncle Kevan and Lady Daenerys to Dragonstone to begin an exploratory mining operation. Grandfather, you’ve always stressed to me the importance of advance preparation… And with Jon and Uncle Tyrion controlling two of the dragons, I don’t think Daenerys is a threat to us. If she means to betray us, let us find out now rather than when we are in the throes of battle.”

Tywin was almost speechless with pride but managed to summon some words, “A wise decision, your grace. We shall see it done.”

**Jon**

Jon couldn’t stop staring at his friend and former brother in black. Samwell had not just survived his journey from Castle Black to Old Town, he’d brought valuable information to the crown that would help them in the war to come. The war no one but Jon, Davos, and Sam seemed convinced was coming.

It was frustrating but Jon could understand their hesitance. He wasn’t sure he’d believe it without seeing it for himself. Sam likely wouldn’t believe it if he hadn’t killed one of the White Walkers himself. Some in the Night’s Watch didn’t even fully believe it – that was the greatest problem.

At least King Tommen seemed to appreciate the threat they could be facing. Perhaps it helped that he was a boy, still enamored by stories and tales of old.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Jon smiled.

Sam chuckled, “I can’t believe _you’re_ here. I’ve been keeping my head down since I left the Citadel. How did you get here?”

“My sister and her husband met the Northern lords at Moat Cailin to discuss peace terms. Ser Davos and I brought Shireen there, hoping to beg mercy on her behalf. Turns out, we didn’t need to beg. My sister – or _cousin_ rather – is more than fair. She’s taken Lady Shireen under her wing. Lord Lannister – I had heard frightening tales of his cruelty, but I think… well, I think he’s a fair man. Stern but fair.”

Sam’s face became pained, something between a grimace and a wince.

“What – do you know something about Lord Tywin?”

“No! It’s… actually what I shared today wasn’t the only thing I’ve learned. There’s something…”

“Wait,” Jon implored. He didn’t think Sansa or her husband would spy on him, but he’d heard enough people say ‘the walls have ears’ since arriving in the capital, that he’d take no chances. “Why don’t you come to the dragon pits with me? Aren’t you curious to meet Rhaegal?”

Sam’s eyes went so wide that Jon couldn’t help but laugh, “You can stand a distance away, but he will not hurt you.”

“I don’t know… I imagine I look like a rather tasty morsel to a dragon.”

Jon laughed again, “Come, we’ll continue our discussion in the dragon pits.”

…

 _Head spinning_ was a sensation Jon should be accustomed to by now, given all he’d seen... Seeing wights and white walkers with his own eyes. Seeing an honorable man ready to burn his only child to death to appease some god. Watching his meek little sister become a lady who could go toe-to-toe with any man (including her _husband,_ the Great Lion!) Meeting not one but three dragons – one of which he had an almost spiritual connection with. Flying on a dragon! Finding out he wasn’t Ned Stark’s bastard, but Rhaegar Targaryen’s, and that he had living family beyond Sansa – Tyrion and Daenerys.

Each of these events was noteworthy in its utter unlikelihood, but to have lived to see _all_ of them?! With no arrogance, he wondered if any man would ever have a more eventful life, and he hadn’t even reached his thirtieth nameday.

And now, when he thought nothing could shock him anymore, Sam was telling him in a whispered tone that he was, in fact, _not_ a bastard. He was a trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. He was, by blood, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. And there was proof of this recorded in the Citadel. At least, there was proof that Rhaegar annulled his first marriage and then married Lyanna. Any who doubted that Jon was the product of Rhaegar’s second marriage need only look at Jon (he had the Stark look more than any of his siblings – no, cousins) and see him ride a dragon (only Targaryens could do that, supposedly).

He didn’t want the damned southern throne anymore than he wanted to be King in the North. He had no interest in ruling, no interest in politics. But he realized that this newfound knowledge was powerful and dangerous. He liked to think Tywin Lannister finally accepted Jon’s assertion that he had _no_ aspirations for _any_ position of import, but Tywin was a pragmatic man. He was the type to eliminate those who opposed him wholesale. And Jon suspected he didn’t mind eliminating those who simply _might_ oppose him. Jon was no fool; he knew that, without seeing the wight with his own eyes, Tywin likely would have disposed of Daenerys by now.

Then again, if Tywin knew that Daenerys’ claim on the throne was even weaker now, would he appreciate Jon for sharing this knowledge?

Perhaps Jon was being naïve in giving his partial trust to Tywin Lannister, but was he similarly naïve in giving his full trust to Sansa? Sansa who seemed – as odd as it sounded – to have tamed the Great Lion?

Sometimes inaction was the best course of action, he rationalized, as he decided to sit on this information until he’d had time to examine it from all angles. Too much harm had befallen his family due to hasty decisions. In the meantime, Sam reluctantly agreed to secrecy.

**Sansa**

There was warmth in being surrounded by what felt like _family,_ and Sansa struggled not to weep tears of joy as she looked at the people around the table in Tommen’s private dining hall.

That Tommen wanted to dine with Sam and his companion, Gilly, was a testament to the young king’s character. Sam and Gilly’s son, little Sam, was currently being held by Shireen, who was hardly old enough to have children of her own but would make a wonderful mother someday.

Jo was similarly stationed in the crook of Jon’s arm – a sight that made Sansa’s heart swell to near-bursting.

Jaime and Tyrion were regaling the “young folks” – which included Sansa, even though she often felt closer in age to her goodsons – with tales of Sansa’s _heroics_ in facing down the Ironborn. Sansa _hated_ this story, but the more she heard it, the more she could look back on the situation with pride. She’d begged the gods’ forgiveness for her mass destruction of so many lives; the Seven Hells may be waiting for her, but as more time passed, she could respect her former self for taking decisive action. It sometimes felt like another Sansa had made those decisions, had spoken those words to Euron Greyjoy, had conspired with Qyburn and Tyrion. Certainly she, who was only ever qualified to sing and sew, was never there. Maybe Robb or Arya’s spirit had possessed her body, like the age-old tales of wargs.

Sam and Gilly were enraptured by the tale, as were Jon and Shireen, who had heard some but not all of the details.

Daenerys was also present, but no one seemed to notice the look in her eyes when Shireen asked if she wanted to hold little Sam. Daenerys accepted the chubby tyke, and her eyes glistened with happiness and perhaps longing.

Jo was passed to an eager Margaery when she became fussy – men were ill-equipped to soothe fussy babies. Except Tywin. Tywin seemed to be able to transfer his calmness to Jo by sheer willpower. Sansa giggled to herself imagining the silent admonishment he would issue to their daughter: _lions do **not** cry._

Tywin himself wasn’t present as he was dining privately with Kevan and Ser Garlan to plan for the upcoming exploratory operation at Dragonstone. Once plans had been finalized, Daenerys would be brought into the loop. Ser Garlan himself wouldn’t be accompanying them, but as Master of Ships he was involved in any plans that involved some or all of the royal fleet being used. Sansa wouldn’t mind if he was absent from the capital for a few months. Though he’d always been kind to her and never improper, their brief exchanges often felt like flirtation on his part. It was subtle, but that Andre and Sandor had noticed and commented on it assured her that it wasn’t merely her imagination.

She also found his eyes lingering on her during Small Council meetings. Lust was never plain in his gaze, but something close to it – admiration?

She tried to be sympathetic to the man, knowing he was separated from his wife Leonette. Had Sansa not enjoyed the company of Jaime and Tyrion while Tywin was away? Of course, they were her family by law, and their encounters were never flirtatious, but still… perhaps Ser Garlan sought platonic female companionship to fill the void caused by his wife’s absence.

Focusing again on the conversation around her, Sansa smiled. It felt a bit like being at the children’s table during celebrations at Winterfell. It wasn’t often that Sansa missed her family anymore, but this was one of those moments. She could imagine Rickon’s giggles, Bran and Arya’s antics, and Robb’s attempts to be the voice of maturity among his siblings. She caught Jon’s eyes and smiled wistfully at him. Without speaking, she was certain he knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Is there an upper age limit to this gathering?”

Everyone turned to see the warm but solemn face of Ser Davos in the threshold where one of Tommen’s Kingsguard was holding the door open.

“If there is, then I fear I should make a departure myself,” Jaime jested.

“Come, join us, Ser Davos,” Tommen smiled, “You were extended an invitation, no?”

“Yes, your grace. I should have sent word, but I was held up unexpectedly. You see I was meeting with one of your shipbuilders at Ser Garlan’s request. Apparently, this old sea-man has some usefulness yet.”

“Ser Davos is one of the best sailors who ever lived. He knows ships better than anyone!” Shireen beamed.

“Not sure of that, my lady, but you honor me nonetheless.”

“Tell us, Ser Davos, how goes the expansion of the fleet?” Sansa asked.

“Well, Lady Lannister. The head shipbuilder wanted a second opinion on some elements of the Ironborn designs... whether we should incorporate those elements or not.” Davos smiled and wiggled his cropped fingers at little Sam, who was staring at him in fascination for reasons only a toddler would know.

A servant scurried to make Davos a plate, making the old knight blush. It was clear the man wasn’t used to being waited on.

“You ask me, we should be making the ships fire-proof… lest our enemies think to steal our ideas,” Tyrion lifted a goblet in Sansa’s direction.

“Not the worst idea, Lord Tyrion,” Davos chuckled, “Unfortunately, the same things that make a ship waterproof make it rather vulnerable to fire.”

“Metal doesn’t catch flame… couldn’t the wood be coated in a thin sheen of something metallic?” Tyrion asked.

Davos pursed his lips, “Sounds expensive to me, but you’re the Master of Coin.”

“But would it work?” Tommen asked, genuine curiosity on his face.

Davos shrugged, “I’m not sure. I suppose the difficulty would be in maintaining the metal coating. It would get worn off quite quickly, I should think.”

“And I suppose there isn’t enough steel or iron in all of Westeros to make the ships _solid_ metal, is there?” Jaime joined the discussion.

The men continued on what Sansa thought was a fascinating topic, but Margaery didn’t seem to agree. She rolled her eyes and joined Sansa, evicting Jon from his chair with a smile that somehow held a command. Sansa made a mental note to practice it in the mirror, then maybe on Sandor and Andre.

“Boys and their toys…” Margaery whispered conspiratorially.

Sansa smiled though she didn’t entirely agree, “Their swords… their armies… their fleets.”

“Always want to have the _biggest._ If Grandmother were here, she’d say they are _compensating_ for something,” Margaery wiggled her eyebrows while Sansa tried not to laugh. Her relationship with Margaery had improved these past months as she and Tywin frequently dined with the king and queen.

At seeing Sansa’s amusement the queen continued, “As boys, Garlan, Willas, and Loras argued over who would grow up to be the tallest. Garlan won, which seems fair since Willas gets to be Lord of Highgarden.”

“Indeed, though none of your brothers has anything to be ashamed of in regards his height.”

“Yes, apparently I’m the only one inflicted with a stunted height.”

Sansa smiled. It was easy to forget Margaery was several inches shorter than her when she’d carried herself as a queen since well before she was one.

“What about your siblings – were they like you or like,” Margaery nodded her head toward Jon, who was now engrossed with the other men in talks of shipbuilding.

“They were like Jon. Arya certainly was. Robb also, unless he had a late growth spurt after I left Winterfell. I suspect Bran would have been short, based on my mother’s comments. Plus, with his injury, his legs would likely have been stunted. Rickon was too young to tell.”

Margaery hummed in quiet agreement. Shireen and Daenerys had made their way over, along with Gilly. There was now an official segregation by gender.

“If you’re complaining about your height, your grace, don’t expect sympathy from me,” Daenerys smiled.

Margaery chuckled, “But you have dragons… seems to cancel out your short stature. Besides… perhaps _someone_ prefers petite women…” Margaery’s eyes darted to Tyrion, who was oblivious to being the sudden subject of the ladies’ conversation.

Daenerys blushed… a sight Sansa had seen very few times. While Margaery’s commanding smile was something to envy, so was Daenerys’ control over the blood vessels in her cheeks.

But this wasn’t a blush over the subject matter alone, this was something else…

_Interesting._

Like many things Sansa heard and saw each day, she filed it away for future consideration and perhaps discussion with her husband.

“I hope I grow up to be tall,” Shireen added to the conversation.

Gilly snorted, “I’d settle for being _thin_.”

Everyone laughed at the simple woman’s very truthful words. Sansa had taken an immediate liking to the young woman. She was shy but didn’t mince words, and she was obviously quite enamored with both of her Sam’s. Sansa was glad the young maester had found companionship. Jon had confided in her that his father, Lord Tarly, had effectively disowned Sam so his _taller, braver_ brother, Dickon, could be his heir. Sansa was tempted to have words with the stoic lord next time she saw him, but she knew she wouldn’t. She’d already tested his limits by asking for a dance. She liked to think the man respected her – even if only because he knew Tywin respected her, and he respected Tywin.

Margaery and Daenerys were assuring Gilly she had no cause for shame – that until your child could walk, it was perfectly acceptable to carry extra weight. Gilly nodded at Sansa, “Tell Lady Sansa that.”

Sansa looked down at herself in surprise. She felt like she still carried what Maester Lantell called “mother’s weight”, but she supposed she had lost some of her plumpness in the past few weeks. She’d resumed more of her duties, as idleness hadn’t suited her. Walking around the keep and making visits to the shelters must be helping her shed her extra heft. She still nursed Jo, but left her in the care of her wetnurse more often than she had in the past. She was trying to ween the babe from her own teat, prompted by an utterly mortifying experience when her left milk duct became painfully clogged and the only apparent remedy was to have it sucked open. Her cheeks still burned when she remembered the conversation with the young maester who reticently offered to perform the _procedure,_ then made a loud sigh of relief when Sansa said it wouldn’t be necessary. And her cheeks burst into flames when she remembered asking her husband to do the task. His apparent eagerness was something she chose to ignore, along with the surprised-but-not-disgusted look on his face when the milk finally flowed free.

Even without that embarrassing (and painful) incident, Sansa knew it was time to stop nursing. She couldn’t conceive while she was nursing, and she desperately wanted another babe. A boy that would be as handsome as his father, a babe she could dote on, not that she no longer doted on Jo. Moreover, Sansa felt a responsibility to ensure the Stark bloodline continued.

 _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell –_ her father’s words echoed in her mind. It could never be her – her place was by Tywin’s side in King’s Landing and, someday, in Casterly Rock. She wished Jon would reconsider acting as Warden of the North. Sansa would feel so much better if someone she trusted fully was overseeing her beloved home – the home she didn’t know she loved until after she left it.


	56. Send Off

**Sansa**

“Looks like winter is coming.”

Sansa snapped her head around with a speed she could not control. She found the source of the voice – a young woman in a dirty, rough spun dress, staring up at the overcast autumn sky.

Sansa appraised the woman silently before responding, “Indeed.”

The woman’s eyes snapped to Sansa as if only just noticing her, “Oh, apologies m’lady. Was thinkin’ out loud.”

“No apology needed.” Sansa nodded toward the shelter, “Do you live here?”

The woman nodded.

“I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Aye, m’lady. Just came 'ere last week. Fell on a bit o’ hard times. No worries, though. I’ll find work soon enough.”

Sansa smiled. The woman spoke bluntly and didn’t seem to pity herself. Sansa admired that.

“It's no trouble. That’s what the shelters are for – helping those in need.”

“Aye, well it don’t sit right with me, bein' dependent on others.”

Sansa turned to her guards. She could tell they were ready to get back to the Red Keep; it had been a long day making the rounds at the orphanages and shelters. But Sansa found she wanted to speak with this woman and learn her story, “You’ve worked?”

“Aye, m’lady. As a seamstress but I weren’t very good at it. Truth be told, I’m better with a bow. My father taught me to hunt same as my brothers.”

Sansa smiled, realizing why she felt fond of this stranger – she reminded her of Arya, “That’s impressive. Did you know we’re teaching archery at the men’s shelter? And to some of the older boys at the orphanages, as well.”

“Aye? Smart. Good idea, on someone's part.”

Sansa blushed, “You must be new to the area.”

“Aye. Was in Tumbleton.”

“What brought you to the capital?”

“My husband,” the woman spit in the dirt, “apologies m’lady but I can’t talk o’ him without spittin' or cursin'. Figure a lady like you wouldn’t appreciate the latter.”

Sansa didn't bother to point out that ladies didn't particular like seeing spitting, either. “I’ve become well accustomed to cursing. I spend more time around lords than ladies.”

“Aye? Never woulda guessed.”

Sansa smiled, “Do you know who I am?”

The woman rolled her eyes. Sansa almost giggled at the sight – she really did remind her of Arya.

“Course I do. Everyone knows of you, Lady Lannister.”

“Well I am also the Master of Welfare. I oversee all the institutions that support that homeless in King’s Landing.”

“Ah, so you’re sayin' it was your idea to teach the lads archery?”

Sansa nodded, “It was.”

“Guess your husband liked that idea – more archers for his army.”

Sansa lifted a brow, “It is the _King’s_ army, not my husband’s.”

“As you say, m’lady,” the woman didn’t look convinced.

“We are also teaching some of the children their letters and numbers, and most of the girls are learning to sew. I suppose you think my husband wishes for them to join the army wielding quills and knitting needles.”

“Meant no offense, Lady Lannister.”

Sansa studied the woman. There was something peculiar about the way she didn’t seem intimidated by Sansa. Of course, Sansa didn’t _want_ anyone to be intimidated by her, but she had accepted the fact that being a Lannister had that effect on people. “What’s your name?”

“Amyra Waters.”

“Waters is your husband’s name?”

“Aye, but 'e ain’t my husband no more,” the woman spit again, “not since 'e dragged me to this stinkin' city and then left me for the first pretty face 'e found.”

“That’s horrible,” Sansa frowned, but the woman only shrugged. “Tell me, other than archery, what skills do you have?”

“I’m good with horses, m’lady. My father was a stable hand. More like stablemaster without the title. That’s how I met my husband – 'e worked for my pa and took a likin' to me. Said he respected a woman who could ride a horse so well. At the time, I was too young to know what ‘e really meant by that.”

The woman had managed to talk about her husband without spitting and it left Sansa with an inexplicable urge to spit on her behalf - an urge she would _never_ act on.

“Any other skills?” Sansa asked.

The woman shrugged, “S’pose the same as any other woman. Can wash clothes. Decent enough cook. Oh and I do know my letters and numbers but haven’t had much cause to use ‘em.”

Sansa’s eyes widened, “That is quite impressive.” Sansa turned again to her guards. Sandor wasn’t bothering to hide his impatience.

The woman followed her eyes. “Got quite an escort. Not sure you need more than the one, though,” she nodded toward Sandor, astride his black war beast, “that face alone could scare off the Stranger.”

Sansa chuckled demurely, “He does make an artform of scowling, but I owe him my life many times over.”

The woman shrugged, but her eyes bore something that looked like protest.

Sansa smoothed her skirts, “Well, it was lovely to meet you, Amyra. I’m sure I shall see you again soon. In the meantime, I will make inquiries within the keep; I fear your skills are being wasted.”

The woman’s eyes brightened, “M’lady is most generous! I’d be grateful for any work you could find me. You shan't regret it.”

Sansa didn’t want to over-promise, so she left it at that. The woman attempted a curtsy. The effort was appreciated, but Sansa thought even Arya could have done better.

**Tyrion**

“Now _that_ was a proper send off.”

Tyrion chuckled, “Nothing _proper_ about it.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes as she pulled a silk robe over her shoulders, “I’m not having this discussion again.”

“That wasn’t my plan.”

She glared at him and he shriveled, “Alright, perhaps it was my plan. How can it not bother you?”

She lifted her long hair out of and over her robe and began combing through it with her fingers. Gods, Tyrion couldn’t get enough of that hair. Tyrion had always been partial to hair like Sansa’s – that shone a dozen different colors in the light. By contrast, Daenerys’ hair was one-dimensional, yet that made it even more striking. It was like molten silver – or a solid sheet of white gold, as pure as her heart. Combined with her alabaster skin which had nary a freckle, her light violet eyes, and even her lips and nipples that were only a shade darker than her skin, she was a blank canvas. The was beauty in her uniformity. No contrast to be found on her whatsoever.

Tyrion, on the other hand, was a walking contrast. Hair that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be black or blond. Mismatched eyes. Half his face scarred and half unscathed. Small of stature but big of brain (and, he admitted with much pride, _cock_ ).

He was imperfect and ugly. She was perfect and untainted. Yet, for some reason, she was falling in love with him.

Now she was rubbing some oil in the ends of her hair, “Why should it bother me? Did your own father not marry his cousin? Did Tagaryen men not marry their sisters and cousins for generations?”

“Yes, and – not to bring up a sensitive subject – but they say that’s the reason there were so many mad Targaryens.”

She huffed, “I’ve already told you I can’t have children. So you don’t need to worry about producing any _mad_ _Targaryens_ with me.”

Tyrion crept to where she sat on the edge of the bed and kissed her silk-clad shoulder, “I know, Dany. But this… whatever this is… are you not worried that it’s just a manifestation of our blood bond?”

He could feel her shoulders tense but she kept her tone light, “What difference does that make? Does every loving couple question the source of their bond? Does your father wonder if his love for Sansa is his attempt to atone for past sins? Does Sansa wonder if she loves your father because of his power? After so many men failed to protect her?”

Tyrion sighed, “I don’t think my father is _atoning_ for anything, and not because he doesn't need to... And anyway, being attracted to someone because they are powerful, or because they make you a better person, is a valid reason. What if we’re only attracted to each other because of this instinctive connection?”

She turned to stroke his cheek, “Then it would mean our bond is stronger than most… but since that clearly isn’t good enough for you, perhaps you’ll be glad to know that I do feel attracted to you for so many other reasons. You are so intelligent, Tyrion. Probably too smart for your own good,” she smiled. “You are loyal and protective of your family, even though you see all their faults. You make me laugh every day. You are brave. You want what is best for the realm, for the people. Behind all that _Lannister arrogance_ I see a man striving to be worthy of his name, of his life.”

Tyrion shook his head in wonder, “You would have been an excellent queen.”

Dany snorted, “No, I wouldn’t have.”

Tyrion began to protest but she stopped him with a slender finger to his lips, “Have I ever told you about Daario?”

Tyrion squinted his eyes, pretending to think, “That would be the _hideous-looking_ sellsword you took to lover, right? The one with a flaccid cock and an uncoordinated tongue?”

She rolled her eyes and chuckled, “Would you like me to be jealous of all _your_ past lovers? If so, I fear I’ll have time for little else.”

“Point made. Please continue, you were going to tell me something about Daren.”

She arched a brow, “Daario.”

“Right.”

“He may have been a sellsword, but there was a wisdom to him. He saw more than he let on. He was a bit like Sansa’s Hound.”

Tyrion winced, “Don’t refer to him as ‘Sansa’s Hound’ in hearing distance of my father, please.”

Daenerys giggled, “ _Anyway_ … he once pointed out a certain flower to me. Something exotic and beautiful but also deadly.”

“Mmm,” Tyrion kissed her hand, “Sounds like someone I know.”

“ _Anyway!_ I didn’t understand why it mattered to learn about this flower. But he said it was because, in order to rule a land, you must _understand_ it. Know it. In hindsight there was so much truth in his simple words, but at the time I didn’t fully appreciate it. I simply thought, ‘I’ll be the queen… I’ll make the land as I want it to be, so I don’t need to understand it as it _is.’_ But I was wrong. You cannot strip away people’s culture and traditions, their hierarchy, their laws – and expect them to thank you for it.”

Tyrion nodded, “Indeed; this Damon sounds like a wise man.”

“Daario!” she chuckled, “And yes - he was. At another time he told me that I was not meant to be a queen but a _conqueror_. He didn’t mean it as an insult. In fact I believe he was rather _aroused_ by my bloodthirsty side… and again, I didn’t truly think about what it meant. If anything I thought ‘Good! Because I will need to conquer the land in order to rule it!’ But that isn’t the right way, is it? I pictured myself going kingdom by kingdom, bringing justice to the evil, the corrupt. Forcing them to kneel to my rule and my _rules._ But that approach would only bring harm to the innocent, who would be made to fight for their lords."

“But surely that wasn’t your real plan. You would take the Iron Throne, not go kingdom by kingdom... And people would kneel to you because - and I’m sorry to say this - the alternative would have been someone like Joffrey or Cersei…”

Dany snorted, “Kneel to me and then what? Tyrion, I know nothing of ruling. Within ten minutes of meeting your goodmother, I realized I never knew what I’d do with the crown once I had it. It was vengeance I wanted, not power. I wanted the crown because I felt like it was _owed_ to me, but why? What have I done to deserve it other than being born a Targaryen?”

“Daenerys – there’s a reason they call you the _Breaker of Chains_. Is freeing slaves not a worthy cause?”

She nodded, “It is, but there is a different kind of slavery in Westeros. Sansa taught me that. There aren’t slave masters with their whips that I can just round up and obliterate with my dragons! The real slave masters are the laws, the corruption, the power struggles, the warmongering. And that can’t be stopped by dragonfire. It takes planning and cunning and – as _Daario_ said – it takes _knowledge_ of the peoples and lands.”

Tyrion shook his head, “You say all this like it’s a source of shame to you. But do you realize that admitting you are not qualified to rule makes you better than most of the men and women who _have_ ruled? It takes bravery, humility, and introspection to admit one’s deficits.”

Daenerys shrugged, “Perhaps. Truthfully though, when Jon showed us the wight... when he spoke of the threat beyond the Wall, I felt…”

Tyrion smiled, “Excited. Like you had a purpose?” He could relate to such a desire. The idea of riding Viserion into battle gave him a thrill that made his heart race and his cock harden.

Daenerys chuckled, “Yes. I saw myself flying on Drogon’s back, burning wights by the score. Being a _hero_. Inspiring men to fight… Even when I was a captive on Euron’s ship, I fantasized about somehow getting free and freeing my dragons so I could rain down fire on his entire fleet. I didn’t care that the throne was _right_ _there_. I didn’t care that I’d be burning the very fleet that I had hoped would ferry over my troops. I thought only of killing that horrible man who led me to lose Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan and others I cared about. Ser Jorah had warned me about allying myself with such a man. He told tales of how the Ironborn would rape and pillage along the northwest coast. But in my quest for the throne, I turned a blind eye to the fact that he was the very type of man that I was trying to bring down. My unyielding pursuit of the throne cost me so much, yet through that loss my eyes opened to the fact that the throne wasn’t my destiny. I thought it was, having been raised on Viserys’ tales of our birthright, our obligation to restore House Targaryen... but it wasn't.”

Tyrion chuckled, “Funny… few of us know what we want when we’re young. I myself always wanted to be my father’s heir – to someday rule Casterly Rock and the West. It didn’t matter that I had an uncanny fascination with dragon lore and other stories of adventure. I wanted Casterly Rock because I felt it was denied to me. Just like you wanted the throne because it was denied to you. We want what we can’t have. Then once we get it, we realize we don’t want it, after all. Luckily for you and me, we aren’t strapped down yet. We learned our lessons in time. We can spend the rest of our days as we want. A pair of dragon riders, with our nephew by our side. Perhaps we’ll be the last. Perhaps not.”

Daenerys turned to him and beamed, “A dragon, a wolf, and a lion. Can you think of any three creatures more fitting to defend the realm?”

Tyrion snorted, “Wait until you meet Jon’s direwolf – you’ll know just how true that statement is. Its head was level with my shoulder - and that's when it was a pup!”

Daenerys lied down and sighed, “I wish I could stay here with you. Or go north with Jon.”

Tyrion frowned, “You don’t wish to see Dragonstone?”

“I do,” she nodded against his side, “and I know how important it is to mine this obsidian. But I finally have a family and now I have to leave you.”

“Don’t worry… Viserion and I can pop over for a visit anytime,” he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, secretly glad to have a woman petite enough for it to not feel like a stretch.

After several minutes Tyrion felt himself falling asleep, despite wanting to spend Daenerys’ last day before leaving for Dragonstone enjoying all the treasures her supple young body had to offer.

“Tyrion,” she whispered, pulling him back from the brink.

“Yes?”

“Who knows about us?”

He smiled, “No one _knows._ Father, Sansa, and Jaime suspect. I imagine Jon suspects.”

“Will they… will your father…”

Tyrion shook his head, “I don’t care. If they object than we’ll fly away, discover some hidden island and make it our own. We’ll call it… Lionfire. Wait, Firelion… or… Fire Island? Dragonfire Island? We’ll spend our days making love in the sand. What say you?”

Daenerys grinned against his chest, “We should help Jon first with these pesky wights. He has a tendency to get so _broody_. We’ll fight in the north, make a name for ourselves as heroes, then leave it all behind.”

Tyrion bellowed out a laugh, “Hah! I would love to finally have my father’s respect, only to snub my nose at him!”

Daenerys shook her head, “I think your father respects you more than you think. You can see it if you know to look for it.”

“And how would you know how to look for it? You’ve only known my father a few months.”

She shrugged, “Men are simply creatures. Their eyes betray their thoughts.”

“Hmm… makes me feel rather exposed. Do all women know this trick?”

“The smart ones.”

“Huh. Now I know why I can never keep anything from Sansa. I used to wonder if she was a mind-reader.”

“Mmhmm… and you can’t keep anything from me, either – so don’t even try.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it!”

“Good. Now I happen to know you don’t want to spend the evening sleeping, so what are you waiting for?”

“I was waiting for you to ask nicely.”

“What if I’d rather command it?”

Tyrion grinned mischievously, “Even better.”

**Tywin**

“You’re sulking,” Tywin pulled up a chair beside his wife’s bath.

“I am not,” she responded defiantly.

“You are.”

She sighed, “Perhaps a little.”

Tywin arched a brow. Sansa huffed, “Fine. I’m sulking. Jon leaves in a sennight. I think I am entitled to fret a bit.”

“He leaves on the back of a dragon. I doubt any harm will come to him.”

“What if the dragon doesn’t do well in the cold? What if the snows effect it?”

“Your brother is a cautious young man. He will not push the beast if it seems to be in distress.”

Sansa sighed, “I know. It’s just… he’s all that’s left of my family, Tywin. My _blood_ family, before you take insult.”

“And he is safer now with his _pet_ than he ever has been before.”

She shrugged and reached for the bar of soap but Tywin grabbed it first. He bit back a grin and dipped the soap in the warm water before lathering his hands.

Sansa lifted an eyebrow, “Aren’t you going to use a cloth?”

“Where’s the fun in that? Give me your foot, wife.”

She huffed again but raised one pale, slender leg above the water line. Tywin set to work on her foot then made his way up her calf, kneading the muscles as he went.

“You’re on your feet too much. Your heel is getting calloused.”

“Is that supposed to be romantic?” she teased, “Tell me, is my arse getting fat, too?”

Tywin shrugged, “No, but I wouldn’t complain if it were; more for me to squeeze.”

Sansa giggled, “Then you shouldn’t complain about my calloused feet; I seem to recall _you_ appointed me to a position that requires me to spend much of my time riding and walking.”

Tywin nodded at her other leg. Obediently she raised it. “I didn’t realize you’d take your position so seriously. I doubt Mace Tyrell has callouses on his feet.”

“Now you’re talking about Mace Tyrell’s feet? This is officially the least romantic conversation we’ve ever had.”

Tywin snorted, “Stand.” He re-lathered his hands and set to work on her thighs, soaping and kneading every inch of her glorious flesh. When he swiped between her legs, she leaned into him and moaned, but he had a job to finish. She pouted as his hands continued up her belly but was slightly mollified when he stroked her breasts thoroughly, teasing her nipples even though it was completely unnecessary to getting his wife clean.

When he was finished with her back and arms, she sat back down to rinse off the soap, but he didn’t let her get out of the tub. She looked at him curiously as he rolled up his sleeve then dipped his hand beneath the surface.

“I think I missed a spot,” he growled as he found her juncture. He gently circled her pearl and she leaned her head back, content to be pleasured by her husband.

He had come to terms with the fact that he enjoyed submitting to his wife in the bedroom, but that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy having her at his mercy on occasion. Now was one of those occasions, as she was completely naked and prone before him, and he was fully clothed and seated.

Once she began whimpering in pleasure, he pulled his hand away wickedly, “There. All clean now.”

She sighed, “Then why do I feel dirtier than I did two minutes ago?”

Tywin snorted in amusement before helping her step out of the tub. He ran the drying sheet over her skin then jerked his head toward the bedchamber. She smiled at him mischievously, “Yes, my lord.”

He watched her saunter over to the large bed, all graceful curves and flushed skin. He stalked a few paces behind her, dragging the chair with him.

“On the bed, on your knees,” he commanded. When she turned around in confusion, he only lifted one eyebrow, a silent challenge to which she relented. She climbed onto the bed on her hands and knees, her cunt on full display just as he’d wanted.

Pulling the chair to the bedside he was pleased to find it just the right height for what he had in mind. He looped his hands under her hips and pulled her back toward him until her center was only a finger’s width from his face. For a few seconds he only breathed against her sensitive flesh.

“Please, Tywin,” she mewled.

“Please what?” he grinned unabashedly, since she couldn’t see the expression.

“Please touch me, taste me.”

“Since you asked so nicely…” he ran his tongue from her nub all the way up to her puckered hole, causing her to hiss in pleasure at the foreign sensation.

He left her wanting more and was scoundrel enough to wait until she begged again.

“Pleeeaaase…”

“Please what?” he repeated.

“Please don’t stop,” she groveled.

“Don’t stop what?”

“Damn it, Tywin!”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at her frustration. Indeed his little lioness liked to be in charge. Once he sated her lust, he’d probably be made to pay for this, but he couldn’t find a reason to care.

“Don’t stop _what?”_ he repeated.

She groaned, “Licking me.”

“Licking you here?” he flicked his tongue against her nub. “Or here?” he circled his tongue around her entrance. “Or… here?” he swiped his tongue up her _other_ entrance.

“Gods, all of them… please.”

His cock twitched at the realization that he’d found a new way to pleasure her. He ran his tongue up the entire length once more, then divided his attention between her three pleasure spots until she began bucking against his mouth. He grasped her hips again from below and worked them up and down as he held his tongue rigid inside her, his lower lip brushing against her pearl while his nose was nestled between her cheeks. Sansa was crying gibberish into the mattress, her legs shaking uncontrollably.

Tywin pulled away to take a much-needed breath, “Do you want to come on my tongue or on my cock, wife?”

“Cock! Please!” her instant response filled him with pride. He wasted no time unlacing his breeches and pulling them down just enough to bury himself into her from behind, causing her to cry out in anguished ecstasy. He wet his thumb with her essence and began teasing her untested entrance. She stiffened but didn’t protest; she was already lost in her bliss.

He kept his movements gentle for a while, allowing himself to feel the tension building in her body until she was tight as a bowstring. Then, he let himself go, slamming into her with abandon over and over again. It took only a few thrusts before she was literally screaming her release. If it didn’t feel so bloody good, he might have paused to worry that guards would come running to their lady’s aid, but as it was, he couldn’t stop. The feel of her body tightening around him combined with the guttural screams and cries dragged him to the edge. Some distant corner of his mind registered that it sounded like she was being murdered, not pleasured. _I’m murdering her with my cock,_ he thought with no small amount of arrogance.

She was peaking a second time in under a minute when he spilled himself inside her with some rather animalistic grunts of his own.

The next morning when he woke, he didn’t remember pulling out of her, lying down, or falling asleep. He woke fully dressed, albeit with his cock and bollocks hanging out of the front of his breeches, and his arms wrapped around a beautiful and fully nude woman. It was a strange way to wake and must have put him in a good mood, for upon realizing that his youngest son probably awoke in _exactly_ this position more times than he could count, all Tywin could do was laugh.


	57. Friends and Foes

**Jaime**

“You’re much improved,” Tywin grunted after an effective parry.

“The Hound doesn’t go easy on me, even when I offer him all the gold in Casterly Rock. A man who’s not motivated by wealth is a dangerous thing.”

Tywin circled his son, “I taught you that.”

Jaime smirked, “And you thought I never listened.”

“No, I just thought you never remembered.”

“Well, I did. Anyway, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

His father struck him on the hip, wounding Jaime’s pride more than his flesh.

“I need to keep my body and skills sharp. If I spend anymore time in a chair, I’ll begin to resemble Lord Manderly.”

Jaime snorted, “I suspect you get plenty of exercise sparring with your wife.” The words had their intended effect; Jaime was able to jab his father in the ribs. It was a small victory.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tywin spoke, clearly trying to downplay his interest.

“Oh, just that my _goodmother_ makes sure you get plenty of _vigorous_ exercise.”

Tywin growled, “If you have to keep track of my marital activities, perhaps it’s time you find your own woman.”

“Nice deflection,” Jaime smirked. He wasn’t talking about their swordplay. “And as a matter of fact, I’d prefer to know _nothing_ about your marital activities. Unfortunately, servants do tend to talk. They talk to other servants, who talk to _other_ servants. Truly, if you need a new Master of Whispers, my squire should be able to fill the role admirably.”

His father became quiet, focusing again on their sparring match, which he’d summoned Jaime to at an ungodly hour of the morning.

“What do they say?” Tywin eventually asked after Jaime had nearly forgotten their topic of conversation.

He truly did not want to think of, much less talk about, his father’s marital encounters. He only brought up the topic to try to provoke his father into doing something rash. Now it seemed like the benefit did not outweigh the risk.

Jaime huffed, “That Lady Lannister is _unfairly_ blessed. Beauty, poise, wealth, and… a _generous_ husband.”

“Mmm,” his father was losing a battle against a smirk.

“But they are only sheep; their opinions matter not,” Jaime prodded.

“Indeed,” his father unsworded him and Jaime took the opportunity to huff some more, this time with his hands on his hips.

“For the record, I’d prefer _not_ to hear about how _blessed_ Sansa is. Yech! You’re my father and she’s… well, she’s like my sister.”

Tywin straightened, “Pick up your sword. And I’d thank you to stop talking. This topic of discussion is uncouth.”

“You asked!”

“And you answered. Now pick up your sword. I don’t have all day.”

Jaime snatched up the weapon angrily, “Well thank the Gods for that.”

**Sansa**

As the mysterious young woman had decreed, winter was indeed on its way. Each day seemed cooler than the last. The days were getting noticeably shorter, the sun noticeably weaker. Sansa was making sure all the shelters were well provisioned with blankets, clothing, firewood, and kindling. The women at the shelters made much of the clothing and linens themselves; loose fabric was much cheaper than finished products. Similarly, they bought whole logs, carted in from the docks, and the men at the shelters chopped it themselves. Sansa herself advised on which vegetables could be grown indoors during the winter, surprised this wasn’t basic knowledge.

Today Ser Garlan had joined her “at the Queen’s request”. He did this on occasion and Sansa wondered whether there was more to it than that. Certainly, the queen was free to want to see the progress for herself, or through the eyes of someone she trusted, but Sansa suspected that, at minimum, she wanted a Tyrell face to be seen by the commoners. The Tyrells knew the importance of _image_. Margaery herself would have come, but she was apparently with child. Eight weeks along according to the maester.

They had finished their stops at the orphanages and were heading to one of the women’s shelters when Garlan spoke with an exaggerate shiver, “Your northern blood will serve you well, my lady.”

Sansa couldn’t help but chuckle, “If you are cold now, then I can only advise you move to Dorne before winter is upon us.”

“That bad, eh?”

Sansa shrugged, “I’m a summer child. I only know what I’ve heard from my parents and elders. Snow squalls so blinding that rope is tied between each building to guide the way. Cold so bitter your eyes tear, then your salty tears promptly freeze to your cheeks. Winds so strong the guards walk with their arms around each other’s waists, so they are less likely to be blown away.”

Garlan’s eyes were wide, “With all due respect, why would anyone live in such a place?”

Sansa smiled, “It’s in our blood, as you say. My lord husband and I argue over whether to light a fire in the hearth. I should say, we used to argue. Now he just instructs servants to light the fires before I return to our apartments for the night!”

“Well, I’d say you should easily be able to charm the servants to your cause, but I admit I’m on Lord Lannister’s side on this issue!”

Sansa chuckled, thinking of all the times she woke to the sound of Tywin grumbling because she’d managed to kick the sheets off both of them in her slumber. She suggested they sleep in separate beds if it was so unbearable. He hadn’t complained about it since. Of course, it wouldn’t be proper to share such details with Garlan, though perhaps Margaery or Genna would get a kick out of hearing it. Margaery was bedridden for the first four moons of her pregnancy, per the maester’s orders. Surely, she could use some entertainment.

Sansa turned back toward Garlan and was about to inquire as to his sister’s wellbeing when she felt something sting her neck on the right side. She instinctively pressed her hand to the source of the pain, looking up to meet Garlan’s eyes. He was staring back at her as if he’d seen a ghost.

“What?” she began to ask, she pulled her hand away and noticed a good amount of blood on her fingers, more than any insect bite would cause.

“Archers!” Garlan shouted.

Sansa was trying to figure out what was going on but everything around her was chaos. Sandor and Andre were shouting orders. Guards were tightening their circle, yanking and kicking their mounts in a way that made the horses panicky.

“Down little bird!” Sandor’s voice commanded. She didn’t know whether it meant to lower herself against her horse or to dismount, and she sat frozen in confusion until Garlan literally pushed her to lean forward with a heavy hand on her upper back. She squeezed her eyes shut, clutching at her horse’s mane, and listening for another command. Shouldn’t they be telling her to ride away?

She tried to focus on what she could hear. There were lots of voices – her guards and commoners – but no steel clanging against steel.

An eternity seemed to pass, but in all likelihood, it was less than a minute since she’d felt the sting at her neck. Suddenly she felt the weight of someone landing on her horse behind her. Thinking some bandit was trying to steal her and her mount, she screamed for Sandor, but Garlan’s voice shushed her, “It’s me, my lady.” She felt his arms digging beneath her to grasp the reins, and she raised herself up so he would have access. Then the horse was moving. She heard the clatter of hooves beside and behind them – her guards, hopefully.

“What’s happening?” she cried.

“Archers on some of the roofs. Clegane and I will get you back to the castle. Ser Andre and a couple of the guards are going to apprehend the assailants.”

“No! It’s too dangerous! Call Ser Andre back!”

“Hush little bird, archers will stand no chance against their swords.” Sandor’s calm, raspy voice soothed her for a moment, and she desperately wanted to believe him.

After another indeterminant amount of time passed, Sansa felt confident they had escaped harm, when she felt more than heard Garlan grunt and press his weight against her before straightening again.

“You alright, boy?” Sandor rasped.

“I’m fine, ser.”

Sansa wanted to ask what had happened but was afraid to. She tried to remember what Garlan wore beneath his cloak. Was it steel armor or leather? Perhaps it was no armor, after all they had the protection of the guards.

Another grunt behind her and Sansa wanted to scream. Sandor shouted at her to take the reins. She knew that wasn’t good. She pulled Garlan’s arms to wrap around her waist and immediately felt him leaning against her. She took the reins and, following Sandor’s lead, kicked the horse into a canter. Smallfolk dove to get out of the way of the horses barreling toward them, but they could go no faster without running people over or risking a horse’s leg on the uneven cobblestone that had pits and dips from years of use. There were also carts and wagons that littered the way, making it difficult for the guards to fully surround her.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw an arrow land in the shoulder of the guard to her right, but he barely broke stride.

Then suddenly it seemed as if the arrows were coming from all directions. She felt Garlan’s hold slipping and she squeezed her elbows to her side, trapping his forearms, while she leaned forward so that he wouldn’t have to hold himself upright.

Suddenly a body was falling from one of the roofs of the houses just ahead. Still clutched in its hand was a bow. The man was wearing odd clothing, but Sansa couldn’t spare more than a moment to look at him as she focused on steering the horse through the may lay.

Further down the road another body fell, wearing similar clothes, but once again Sansa had hardly any time to look as she was distracted by the sound of the guard next to her falling off his horse.

“Don’t stop!” Sandor ordered, just as Sansa was tempted to pull up her reins and do just that.

She didn’t know whether to feel safer or more exposed now that they were out of the merchant’s district and the buildings were shorter – mostly houses. Would there be no more archers? Or would they be that much closer to their attackers?

The riderless horse had ridden ahead wildly and was effectively clearing a path for them, though Sansa cringed as she saw people nearly being trampled. There were still arrows flying, but it didn’t seem to be as many. Sansa kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, toward the keep, until she saw a small woman swing up onto the courser’s saddle, mounting the galloping horse as if it took no effort at all.

The woman pulled up the reins and waited until Sansa’s party was nearly upon her before kicking the horse into a canter. She rode without holding the reins, the guard’s bow drawn as she peered at the roofs all around. Even in her state of shock, Sansa was in awe of the woman who was completely poised and as capable as any soldier Sansa had ever met. She fired an arrow and drew another so quickly Sansa couldn’t even follow the motion. Behind her Sansa heard a single yelp before something heavy thudded to the ground.

Somehow word of the attack must have spread back to the castle for the gates opened upon their approach. Ser Addam, Ser Loras, and Ser Jaime were armored and mounted. Even Tywin and Tyrion were mounted, but not armored. By the look of it, they had been seconds away from riding out when Sansa’s party returned.

In a heartbeat, Loras and Tywin were at Sansa’s side. Garlan practically fell off the horse and into his brother’s arms, and now Sansa knew why – there were two arrows sticking out of his shoulder and one sticking out of his lower back. Tywin yanked her from the horse and squeezed her to his chest so hard she could barely breathe. His arms felt like safety, they felt like home, but Sansa was too eager to find out the state of the rest of her party and gently pushed herself away enough to look around.

Ser Garlan was already being carted away. There were two fewer guards then there should be, she thought. She gasped when she saw Sandor’s ear had been sliced open and an arrow stuck out of his left arm. He was huffing, hands on his hips, and looked madder than she’d ever seen him.

The other guards were in similar states, but it was obvious that their armor had been the difference between life and death.

“Who’s this?” Tyrion’s voice pulled Sansa’s attention to the woman who’d seemingly appeared out of nowhere and hopped on the horse to lead them back to the keep.

“Amyra?!” Sansa gasped loudly.

Tywin looked at his wife with a confused expression. Sansa was so shocked she felt a giggle burst through her mouth, “When you said you were good at archery and good with horses, I didn’t think you meant _that!”_

The girl nodded solemnly.

“Who are you?” Tywin asked sternly.

Sansa answered on her behalf, “My lord, she lives at one of the shelters. I just met her recently.”

The girl dismounted and walked to stand toe to toe with the Great Lion. Sansa’s eyes widened.

“Husband,” Sansa spoke softly, “she helped us.”

Sandor stomped over, “It was you on the rooftops, wasn’t it, taking out the archers?” he spoke like an accusation.

“Aye,” Amyra answered blankly.

“How many of them did you kill?”

Amyra shrugged, “Four. Five.”

Sandor nodded, and if Sansa wasn’t mistaken, he was giving Amyra a rare gesture of respect and gratitude. “Do you know who they were?” he asked.

Amyra shrugged again, “Had their foreheads carved up with seven-pointed star.”

Tywin grimaced before walking over to Jaime and Addam who were awaiting his command. “Take as many men as you need. Find everyone involved in the attack on my wife and kill them where they stand. Leave their bodies in the streets to remind everyone what happens to those that try to hurt a member of House Lannister, a family member of the king. Spare only one for questioning.”

Tywin turned to return to Sansa, but Jaime called out, “Father, if it is the Sparrows, they’ve been all but invincible these past months. They’ve likely gone back into hiding.”

Tywin turned back around with a sneer, “Then knock on every door, offering coin to any who assist the Crown in apprehending these criminals, and a swift _death_ to any who willingly aid these criminals.”

Jaime swallowed and nodded. He gracefully mounted his courser and he and Addam marched out, a small army of Red Cloaks in their wake.

Tywin pulled Sansa toward him, stroking his thumb gently over the cut on her neck. His eyes looked pained, but she didn’t know what to do or say to comfort him here, in front of so many eyes.

For long moments he stared at her and didn’t break their gaze even as he called out his next command, “Clegane, see your lady to her chambers. Make sure she’s well-guarded, then have yourself seen to.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“What about Amyra?” Sansa plead.

Tywin appraised the girl, “She’ll be generously rewarded.”

“She can’t go back out to the city! If anyone knows she helped us, she won’t be safe from the Sparrows.” Sansa knew it sounded too much like defiance, but she couldn’t help herself. She was on edge, she was afraid, and she was not about to let someone who’d come to her aid become a victim of the radical group.

Tywin took a deep breath before beckoning a steward over with a flick of his wrist, “Lady Amyra is to have lodging in the guest tower. See to it that she is comfortable and _guarded_.”

Amyra tipped her head at Sansa, “M’lady.” A moment later she was disappearing through the crowd, led away by a steward as Sansa was led away by her fierce protector.

“Come on, girl,” he spoke quietly.

Too many emotions to process were flooding Sansa’s mind, but the overwhelming feeling in her bones was _sadness._ Acute but unattributable sadness. Was she sad for the guard who had fallen? Was she sad for Ser Andre and the other guards still out there? Or for Jaime and Addam, putting themselves in danger to avenge her?

Was she sad for Ser Garlan, who took three arrows to the back to protect her?

Was she sad for the people who’d be killed tonight in the name of her house if it was even _suspected_ they had affiliations with the radical group?

Was she sad for Amyra, and whatever she’d gone through in her young life to make her so unfazed by killing men?

Was she sad for Tywin, who probably thought he’d never see his wife again?

Was she sad for little Joelyn, who was spared from being motherless by a fraction of an inch?

Was she sad for the men who attacked her, for whatever misguided reasons they had?

Was she sad for the entire realm, because it was a place where people would sooner kill each other than love each other?

“Can’t believe the fucker got my good ear,” Sandor grumbled as they walked up the steps. He was gently dabbing at the ridge of his ear, split in half by the arrow.

Sansa found herself smiling at his words, “The Gods thought you were far too pretty. They had to humble you a bit.”

She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing but couldn’t hold it in when Sandor threw his head back and guffawed, his deep voice echoing through the stairwell.

They continued laughing until her belly hurt, unable to take another step. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard. She laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed…

And then all at once she cried.

Sandor’s smile dropped away, and his eyes widened at the sight. She still didn’t know why, but the feeling of sadness was so oppressive she could scarcely breathe.

He wrapped his massive arms around her slim shoulders, “It’s alright, little bird. You’re safe now. Nothing will happen to you here.”

She wanted to tell him she wasn’t crying out of fear for herself, but as she didn’t know why she _was_ crying, she didn’t bother to correct him. She simply cried with as much vigor as she’d been laughing moments ago. She cried and cried and cried and cried, and the next thing she knew she was in her bed, no longer crying, succumbing to sleep.

**Tywin**

Tywin’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking as he finally made his way to his chambers after one of the most grueling days in recent memory.

He had been holding court with Tommen when a guard barged in, ignoring decorum to shout the news that there was an attack taking place in Flea Bottom. Archers raining down arrows on a group of the King’s men. Tywin knew Sansa and her guards had been out to visit the city’s shelters that day, and before anyone could stop him, Tywin was running out to the courtyard. He heard Jaime shouting commands as they headed toward the stables.

By the time they were mounted and headed toward the gate he saw his wife and a few of her guards riding in. His knees buckled at the sight and the Great Lion nearly fell to the ground in relief.

While Jaime and Addam led a sortie to round up and execute the offenders, Tywin, Tommen, Tyrion, Pycelle, and Varys met in the Small Council room. Lord Mace was absent, seeing to his son.

Tywin had lost control. He was practically screaming at the Master of Whispers. Just weeks ago the man had reported that the Faith Militant was seemingly disbanded. Of course, they all knew those deranged radicals were still _out there_ , but the group seemed to lack structure, lack leadership, and, most importantly, lack a _cause_.

But apparently, such was not the case. The group was still whole enough to pull off a well-organized attack, and for some reason had chosen Tywin’s wife as the target.

Tywin’s blood was boiling. His wife was the last person in this city _anyone_ should want to see harmed. She was beloved by the courtiers and smallfolk alike.

Queen Margaery had stormed into the council room, apparently having learned of the attack which left her brother gravely injured. Her brother Loras was begging her to calm down and return to bed – to heed the maester’s warning – but the woman was incensed. She ordered that all the Sparrows be killed on sight. Tommen tried to calm her, insisting that the matter was well in hand. Tywin allowed the woman’s mad rantings only because he knew she was deeply afraid for her brother. But when all she did was repeat herself Tywin ordered one of his guards to assist Ser Loras in returning Margaery to her chambers. Pycelle left to tend to the woman himself – the Tyrell’s own maester had perished during the plague.

Clegane was summoned after he’d been stitched up by the maester. He gave a full report of the incident to the council. The attack started when an arrow nicked Sansa’s neck. Tywin would have retched had he not had an audience. Sansa survived because an arrow was less than a finger’s width from its mark. Clegane described the chaos that ensued as the smallfolk began to panic. Thinking it had been a single attacker, Ser Andre and two of the guards went to pursue the rooftop assassin while Clegane led the rest back to the castle. Ser Garlan took three arrows intended for Sansa. The man’s quick thinking and courage were commendable. He sacrificed himself to be a human shield for the Hand’s wife. Tywin hated to owe anything to the man who did a poor job of hiding his attraction to Sansa, but indeed a debt was owed. Sansa would be dead if not for his quick thinking and valor.

And the mysterious peasant girl had apparently seen the attack and jumped from rooftop to rooftop, killing as many of the archers as she could until she somehow ended up riding on one of the fallen guard’s horses, continuing to pick off another archer or two as she led the procession back into the castle walls.

Tywin didn’t know what to think of this _Amyra._ At face value, she had been a friend to House Lannister. But Tywin thought it far too coincidental that this woman, new to the city, just happened to be in a position to make a difference. Even more suspicious, that she possessed the skills to help. Perhaps it was all a ploy to gain their trust, to get herself invited to stay in the Red Keep, which is exactly what Sansa had done. Perhaps that was the plan all along. Or at least a contingency plan.

After the council meeting ended, Tyrion and Tywin strategized for the coming days. Obviously, Jaime and Addam wouldn’t be able to find every one of the fanatics. The quick strike was important, but clearly these men knew how to stay out of sight. They had places in or around the city where they could hunker down for months on end. Tywin was tempted to burn everything beyond the Red Keep to the ground, but even in his frenzied state he knew that was something that Joffrey or the Mad King would do. Perhaps it was even what the Sparrows _wanted_ him to do. After all, they fed on chaos. They prospered when the city was at its worst – during Joffrey’s reign. Their numbers swelled because the people had become so disenchanted with the Crown that they sought some other authority to follow.

When Tywin finally reached his apartments, the Hound was standing guard even though his shift was long over.

“Any word on Brax, my lord?” the tall man asked.

Tywin shook his head.

Sandor nodded before jutting his chin toward the bedchamber door, “She was in a state, you should know.”

“Mad?”

Sandor shook his head.

Tywin took a breath, “I want two guards outside our door tonight, and each night until I tell you otherwise. When I’m not present, four guards, including yourself. Until Ser Addam returns, you’re in charge.”

The large man nodded stoically, “I’ll see it done immediately.” He turned and headed away, presumably just long enough to summon two guards and inform the others of the temporary assignment.

Tywin entered their bedchamber as quietly as he could. Enough candles were lit to see that Sansa was sound asleep – her breathing deep and steady. A small squeak alerted him that Jo, on the other hand, was awake. He found her in the bassinette on the far side of the bed. It made him both sad and proud that Sansa wanted her child near her. _A lioness protecting her cub._ Tywin didn’t think any man would get past the lioness without one hell of a fight, even if she was armed with only her bare hands and her wit. That thought, however prideful, only served to fill Tywin’s head with images of men in dun robes swarming the Tower of the Hand, overpowering the guards, and cornering Sansa in the bedchamber. He didn’t want to but couldn’t stop imagining Sansa using everything within reach to fend them off, flinging pitchers, goblets, the chamber pot… in desperation she’d grab one of the heavy chairs and struggle to lift it high enough to hit her attackers. But none of it would matter…

“Bah.”

Jo’s babbling drew Tywin’s attention. It was a new development for her in the past month, her first attempts to speak.

Tywin lifted her out of her bassinette along with her small red blanket and moved to sit closer to the fire. He rocked her gently against his shoulder as he wondered whether she would thrive in cold weather like her mother, or be more tolerant of heat, like her father. Selfishly, he hoped for the latter. One day she’d live at Casterly Rock, where the sun was always warm, and the hearths and braziers were only employed during the deepest parts of winter.

Sansa spoke to Jo often, in full sentences, about trivial but adult topics. Tywin never saw the point in speaking to someone who couldn’t understand much less respond to his words. But suddenly the urge was great. He kept his voice low, “Would you like to learn about the women you were named for?”

Of course, she didn’t respond, but she did seem to still as if fascinated by her father’s words.

Tywin sighed, “The first part of your name – “Jo” – is short for Joanna. That was my first wife. I’m sure your brother Jaime will tell you about her someday. Joanna was a beautiful woman with blond hair and green eyes. Her skin was paler than most Lannisters, likely because she spent most of her time indoors. She was my best friend. And I loved her. I know what people said about us – that while I ruled the realm, Joanna ruled me. It wasn’t that simple. I sought her counsel on certain affairs, yes, but Joanna was busy running the household, raising our children… Perhaps they meant that she ruled my heart. I suppose that is fair.”

Tywin shifted his daughter so that she laid along his forearm. Her big green eyes stared up at him even as she tried, unsuccessfully, to fit her entire fist in her mouth.

“The second part of your name is for Catelyn. Catelyn Tully Stark. Also a beautiful woman, like your mother. She would have been your grandmother. She was an admirable woman, going to war with her son, your uncle Robb. She didn’t swing a sword, of course, but she was part of his war council. I have no doubt she counseled him well, for the lad won battles he had no right to win. Though trout by birth, she was a true she-wolf. She died with a dagger in her hand, so I’m told, trying to protect her own son. Just like your mother would, I’m sure, if someone threatened you.”

Tywin sighed, looking down at the babe, “Do you even understand the lengths your parents would go to for you? I am not a good man, Jo, you should know that about me. If I had to choose between the lives of every living person in the realm, or you and your mother… I’d choose you two. There’d be no farmers left, so I would till the fields myself. I’d butcher the pigs, I’d collect the eggs, I’d haul the buckets of water. I’d work day and night to keep you and your mother fed. While I toiled outdoors, your mother would sew our clothes, cook our meals... She’d teach you your letters and numbers.”

Tywin leaned back, imaging the sight they’d make. He chuckled to himself, “Come to think of it, it doesn’t sound so bad, does it? Assuming I’d live long enough for one of your brothers to grow big and strong so he could take over my duties. But that would be our life. Working, making babes, raising those babes. No game of thrones. No war. No scheming… No, it wouldn’t be so bad.”

He looked down to his daughter, but she was now sound asleep. He supposed it was better that she didn’t hear the strange musings of a sleep-deprived and emotionally exhausted man.

He gingerly placed her back in her little crib and turned to face his wife. The candle was nearly burnt out, but it cast enough light to reveal her beautiful features. Shadows danced on her snow-white skin and he traced his thumb along the fresh scab on her otherwise unmarred neck. It wasn’t deep or even long, but it filled him with rage to look upon it. He looked to the other scar then, the one faded but still visible on Sansa’s fair cheek. Twice now he had failed her.

_No, more than twice… There was also Lancel’s attack. And Euron Greyjoy’s threat._

_Four times_ since he’d brought Sansa Stark under his protection her life had been in grave danger.

He vowed then that there would never be a fifth…


	58. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE 02FEB21: Hi lovely readers. If you're reading each chapter as it's posted, please note that I just realized I left out a chapter. Go back and read what is now Chapter 56.  
> (What are now chapters 57 & 58 were previously 56 & 57.)
> 
> Made this same mistake with me JaimSanSan fic a couple weeks back... I'm getting sloppy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caution that 2nd Tywin scene in this chapter contains non-graphic torture as well as graphic threats of torture. If you can't stomach that type of content then when you get to that section, skip to the paragraph that starts with "“Now… if you answer all my questions truthfully"

**Tywin**

He sought the girl out early, hoping to catch her sleepy and unprepared, but she must have been up before the sun, for she was fully dressed and with no signs of sleepiness in her eyes.

Tywin strode into her guest chamber, his two guards standing just inside the threshold. He didn’t think this little slip of a girl could pose any threat to him, but Clegane seemed impressed by her, and the Hound wasn’t one to give praise unless it was well deserved.

“Who are you?” Tywin spoke cool and calmly.

“Amyra Waters, m’lord,” she attempted a curtsy.

“Do you have a husband?”

“Run off with some whore,” the woman spat on the floor and Tywin winced at the vulgarity. She may be wearing a dress but nothing about this creature was ladylike. It was no surprise a man would seek other company if _this_ is what he had waiting for him at home.

For now, he chose not to reprimand her, “Where did you live before you came to the capital?”

“Tumbleton, m’lord.”

“Your husband worked there?”

“Aye, for a time. My father tended the horses for a merchant; my husband helped.”

“What is your father’s name?”

“Frosher. Oswell Frosher. Why’d you ask, m’lord?”

“What was the merchant’s name?”

Her eyes narrowed, “Tobas Skinner.”

“How did you learn to fight? My wife’s guard said you took out some of the archers on the rooftops.”

“My pa raised me to be able to protect myself, m’lord. My ma died when I was young. Band of deserters during the rebellion, roving around. My pa never wanted me to be reliant on a man to protect me.”

This put the girl older than Tywin had thought, if she was born before or during the rebellion. Smallfolk typically looked older than their true age, not younger, though he supposed if her father worked for a merchant her life would have been more comfortable than the average farmer’s daughter.

Tywin ignored that matter for now, “But you weren’t protecting yourself yesterday. You were protecting my wife. _Why?”_

“She’s a good lady, m’lord. After we first met, she said she’d make inquiries to find me a position in the Keep.”

Tywin arched a brow skeptically, “That’s it? She offered to help you secure employment, so you risked your life to help save her?”

The girl shrugged, “Weren’t much of a risk. They didn’t even hear me coming.”

Tywin sighed, letting the exhale rumble slightly in his throat, “Within a fortnight of meeting my wife, you happen to be in the position to come to her aid at the very moment she is attacked. Surely you understand this looks suspicious.”

“I was at the shelter she’d just left, m’lord. Nothing suspicious about that, since I live there.”

“ _Everything_ about you is suspicious. At minimum, you were trying to endear yourself to my wife so you might benefit financially. But I’m more inclined to believe you meant to endear yourself to my wife so you could get close to her… hope she would offer you some position within our household.”

She shrugged again, “Why’d I do that?”

“To bide your time, find an opportunity to hurt or kill my wife.”

The girl rolled her eyes, “And why’d I do that?” She stared at Tywin expectantly, her expression one of impatience, perhaps impertinence, but she showed no fear. Guilty people showed fear. In the face of the Great Lion, most innocent people showed fear, too. But she looked as if this entire conversation was nothing but an inconvenience.

“Because you are working with the Sparrows, would be my guess.”

“Listen, m’lord, I didn’t know the Sparrows existed until yesterday. I’d never seen ‘em. Didn’t even know who they were yesterday, only that they looked like monks and had stars carved into their foreheads.”

“So you say.”

“Then send me away if you don’t believe me. I’ll be just fine on my own.”

“Send you somewhere I can’t keep eyes on you? What kind of fool do you take me for?”

She raised an eyebrow and Tywin knew she was suppressing an unkind retort.

“So you come here for answers, but you don’t believe the ones I give you. What do you want from me, Lord Lannister?”

“I want nothing from you, because I wouldn’t trust your word. But know this: you will _not_ come within twenty paces of my wife at _any point_. There is no man or woman in this realm I would hesitate to cut down if they so much as threatened my wife. Do you understand?”

The girl’s eyes narrowed, and she held the Great Lion’s gaze with either bravery or stupidity for longer than most men could manage. Then, like blowing out a candle, her stern expression dropped away, “Best get to it then, m'lord. Because _someone_ wants your wife dead. And believe me or don’t, but it ain’t me.” She crossed her arms then, and Tywin somehow found it easy to believe her. He’d gotten this far in life by knowing when he was being lied to; this girl was not lying.

Still, he wouldn’t bet Sansa’s life on it. Instead he jerked his chin at her, “A steward will be along to give you an assignment. The kitchens, the washrooms… he will know I want you nowhere near my wife, and so I’ll have no reason not to take your head if I see you in her vicinity.”

He left without another word.

…

Tywin avoided the dungeon room where he’d ordered the sole prisoner to be held. He was more than eager to meet with the man, but he decided to let him get acquainted with the darkness of the Black Cells first.

He and the rest of the council listened intently to the report delivered by Jaime, Ser Addam, and Ser Andre.

The captive they now had was believed to be the man who shot the first arrow – the one that nearly took Sansa’s life. Ser Andre’s men caught him immediately after the attack began. The fool expected the guards would all surround Lady Sansa and thus he had no swift escape route planned when three armed men, including Andre, stormed the building he was in.

Jaime and Addam had met up with Andre shortly after riding out to the city. The three men divided up the host of City Watchmen that Jaime and Addam rode out with and each scoured the city, street by street. A total of four Sparrows were found and killed – those that had been part of the attack and had hunkered down, hoping to remain hidden until nightfall. Of course, the search operation lasted through the night.

While they searched, they also questioned the citizens. All were horrified by what had been done to Lady Sansa, and were eager to help, though few knew anything of value. Some pointed out buildings believed to have underground cellars where the Sparrows might be hiding. Others mentioned names of men who had once been part of the Faith Militant but had since returned to a “normal” life. These men were also tracked down, and if there were no neighbors or employers who could account for their whereabouts during the attack, they were killed on sight. This made an additional two men killed and left in the street as a message to any who might think of harming a member of the king’s family.

While Jaime, Addam, and Andre oversaw the search of the city, Varys had spent all night trying to learn anything he could about what might have prompted the attack by speaking to his network of spies – his _little birds_ throughout the city. He reported to Tywin, Tommen, Lord Mace, Pycelle, and Tyrion early that morning. Unfortunately all he had to report was a hunch that the Sparrows resented House Lannister, and Sansa in particular, for the stability they brought to the city. The Faith Militant, and the extreme faction known as the Sparrows, particularly, thrived during times of chaos. Since Tommen was coronated and Sansa began her work with the city’s impoverished, order had been restored.

Tywin would prefer something more solid, but his eldest son confirmed the theory was viable. The men that were questioned before being cut down reported no personal animosity toward Sansa or even House Lannister. She merely was the most accessible person within Tommen’s inner circle. None reported that the Sparrows were acting on anyone else’s command, and Tywin could think of no one in the realm who would want to see Sansa dead; certainly not anyone that had the power to influence the Faith Militant. Daenerys would be the likely suspect if Tywin didn’t know for a fact that she was guarded day and night by men he trusted, and thus would have no opportunity to find and meet with any of the Sparrows. She had no gold with which to bribe a guard, and Tywin doubted any of his loyal men could be swayed by her cunt alone. He wouldn’t rule her out, but he also didn’t think Sansa would be her main target if Daenerys _did_ wish to act against House Lannister. Sansa’s death would hurt both Tyrion and Jon – men Daenerys was related to by blood and seemed to genuinely care about. If the attack had been on Tywin himself, he would suspect Daenerys’ involvement. As it were, he was inclined to think she had no culpability. And she was presently at Dragonstone, so Tywin couldn’t question her.

Deciding his _guest_ hadn’t spent quite enough time in the Black Cells yet, Tywin went to check on Sansa. He shouldn’t have been surprised to be met with her ire, “Why am I a prisoner in our rooms, husband?”

“Good morning to you, too, wife. Firstly, don’t be so dramatic. I suggested to Clegane that you should stay here, and I should think the reason is quite obvious.”

“I was attacked _outside_ the city, Tywin. Do you truly think I’m at risk within the Keep?”

“What do you have to do that is so important that it cannot wait until this matter is settled?”

“I should like to be a part of the discussions regarding this _matter_ … and the _settling_ of it!”

Tywin reminded himself she was less than a day away from what must have been one of the most terrifying moments of her life. He kept himself calm and rational rather than feeding into her hysterics, “It is well in hand. Jaime, Ser Andre, and Ser Addam have returned safely. We have one of the Sparrows to interrogate. We will have answers soon.”

“And until then I’ve been relegated to our chambers?”

Tywin groaned, “You speak as if you’re in the dungeons. You are free to move about the entire tower. All I ask is that you don’t leave the tower until I’ve had a chance to interrogate this man. For all we know there is a threat within our walls. If you _must_ leave, do so only under heavy guard.”

He wasn’t expecting her to agree so readily, but she did, “Fine. I’ll summon Shireen to help with my tasks. We’ll work in your solar today… I assume you’ll have no use for it?”

“You assume correct.”

She nodded, “Very well. But I have thoughts on the matter that I hope you will be willing to hear.”

Tywin pinched his brow, “Proceed.”

“Have you ascertained whether the Sparrows were acting on their own or on another’s behalf?”

Tywin shook his head, “Varys suspects the former. I would suspect the latter if I could name a single person who’d like to see you dead. I’ve considered where our new Warden of the North might be behind it. I believe Lord Manderly is trustworthy, but he has the wealth to pay off the Faith. And if the Stark line were to be extinguished… he might think he would be given Winterfell permanently.”

Sansa chewed her lip, “No. Extinguishing the Stark line would mean killing not just me but also Jon and Joelyn. Not to mention you, as my husband. Beyond that, the North isn’t like the south, with all the infighting. The Starks have ruled there for eight thousand years and rarely did anyone contest them. With the Boltons eradicated, there are no families left that have ever challenged the Stark name. Plus, they are dependent on us through winter… why risk that?”

Tywin nodded, “So if the attackers were acting on another’s behalf, which we do not know, it _wasn’t_ about succession. As you pointed out, they’d need to take out four people, not one. Some might argue six people – after all, if Winterfell is mine by marriage, then would it not be passed to Jaime or Tyrion upon my death?”

“I agree.”

Tywin sunk into a chair, tired of wracking his brain, “Perhaps it is as Varys says. Men who thrive on chaos have been known to _incite_ chaos… but…” Tywin sat forward, feeling he was on the cusp of a realization, “but it wouldn’t have been a chaos that would drive people back to the Faith. The people love you. Killing you would only turn you into a martyr. Moreover, so many people witnessed the attack – saw the perpetrators. If anything, the people themselves will take up arms against the Sparrows to avenge their lady…”

“You’re right, husband. This theory is baseless. And yet… Lord Varys has proposed it.”

Tywin looked to his wife, “Are you suggesting…”

“I don’t know, Tywin. But how is it that Lord Varys didn’t know of the Sparrows? How is it that he doesn’t see the same flaw in his theory that we do?”

“I agree it is suspicious. But even Kevan agreed it was all but impossible to learn anything about the group… what was left of it. They’ve been like ghosts. Nonetheless, I shall speak to our Master of Whispers after I’ve dealt with our guest. Hopefully, he will have all the answers we seek, and we need not waste another moment in conjecture.” With a kiss to his wife’s head, he left to see to a task that should not be pleasant, but that he would very much enjoy.

**Sansa**

Sansa sat in Tywin’s solar, working on plans for the shelters and outlining her vision for sanctioned bartering. The latter would fall under Lord Mace’s domain, but the man was out of his depth and since it was Sansa’s idea originally, and as she had partial responsibility for Commerce, she volunteered for the task. Meanwhile, Shireen updated the ledgers for the Welfare account. Each shelter had its own ledger, as did each program, to make it more difficult for anyone to skim off the accounts. She smiled as she recalled something Tywin taught her when she first started helping with the ledgers of the Red Keep. _Truth lives in details. Vaguery is the tool of liars and thieves._

While she worked, Sansa couldn’t help but wonder who might have wanted her dead. Two short years ago the list would have been quite long, but now she agreed with Tywin that no one would benefit from her death.

Still, there must be something they weren’t seeing…

A knock on the door made Sansa flinch. Sandor stepped in to announce a messenger from the King. The young man was breathless as if having run all the way here. Sansa stood up immediately, fearing someone in her family had been attacked.

“Speak, lad!” Sandor elbowed the boy lightly when all he did was stare at Sansa.

“My lady… Lady Lannister… I was sent to… retrieve you… and your lord husband.”

“For what purpose?”

“It’s the queen, my lady. She has miscarried. The King is distraught, my lady.”

Sansa sprung into action, “Have you notified Ser Jaime or Lord Tyrion?”

“No, my lady, I came here first.”

“Alright. Find both of them, please. Ser Jaime is likely in his bedchamber sleeping since he was out all night supervising the search of the city. Lord Tyrion is likely in his solar.”

The boy nodded, “The Lord Hand, my lady?”

“He is not to be disturbed. I shall go on his behalf.”

Sansa didn’t care that she was disobeying her husband’s wish that she stay within the Tower. She’d been summoned by the king, and she would not deny him.

Poor Tommen was red-eyed when Sansa found him outside Margaery’s bedchamber. She pulled him into a hug and he sobbed into her hair, “I’ll kill every one of those Sparrows myself if I must! It’s all their fault! Margaery was so beside herself when she learned of Ser Garlan’s injuries. She wasn’t supposed to be out of bed, much less running around the castle in a frenzy! I should have posted more guards to make sure they wouldn’t let her leave!”

“Hush, Tommen. These things happen. This may have happened even if not for the events of yesterday.”

Tommen shook his head defiantly, “No. Maester Pycelle said it was her nerves that caused this. She was too upset about her brother. It put stress on the babe.”

Sansa pulled away to offer him a smile, “And I was stressed when the plague struck, when the Iron Born sailed into our bay. But I didn’t lose Joelyn. This happens sometimes, for reasons even the maesters don’t understand. But another babe will come, my king.”

The moment Jaime and Tyrion appeared, Sansa passed Tommen off to their care and bid entry into the Queen’s chambers. A maid opened the door. Another maid was standing along the far wall, and two of Margaery’s cousins were standing at the foot of her bed. Ser Loras was holding Margaery’s hand while Pycelle spoke in a low voice. All looked at Sansa as she entered. The maids and Loras tipped their heads and the cousins offered watery smiles, but Margaery’s gaze was ice.

_Her brother was injured to protect me. His injury put her in a state. That state made her lose her babe._

Sansa wished she’d had that realization before stepping foot into this room. As it were, all she could do was offer her condolences and take any blame Margaery chose to direct at her with grace.

“My queen, may I inquire as to how you’re feeling?”

With the subtlest of nods from Margaery, the maester, both maids, and both cousins scurried out. Only Ser Loras remained.

“I am as well as any woman might be after losing a child – the future prince or princess.”

Sansa shook her head, “I am so sorry, Margaery. I cannot even imagine—”

“Of course you can’t. You have your daughter. Your healthy daughter, who stayed safe in your womb while everyone around you fell ill.”

“Margaery—” Loras started.

Sansa interrupted him, “It’s quite alright, Ser Loras. I myself have questioned how, and sometimes _why_ , I have survived what I have. I am sorry for what you have suffered, Margaery. And I’m sorry for what Ser Garlan suffered.”

“You mean what he suffered to save you? How many armored guards were with you? Yet why was it _my brother_ shielding your body with his own?”

Sansa shook her head, “I do not know. Truthfully, it happened so fast. I did not ask him to protect me, to risk his life for mine, nor would I have.”

Margaery snorted bitterly, “Of course you didn’t. He did it because he adores you. Just like every man in this city.”

At this, Sansa was taken aback. While Sansa had the respect of many men, she hardly thought she was _adored_ by them. On the contrary, they adored Margaery – the _little rose –_ with her thick brown hair, heart-shaped face and almond eyes. Margaery caught men’s attention everywhere she went with her tight-fitting gowns that revealed her humble but shapely breasts and generous hips. Her sweet voice was enchanting. Her giggles were infectious. Her smiles were radiant. Her eyes twinkled with mirth and innocent mischief.

When Sansa looked in the mirror, by contrast, she saw a woman who was beautiful but cold – a woman whose eyes would never again sparkle, whose smiles would never again brighten a room.

But Sansa was not about to argue with a grieving woman, “Margaery, I am sorry about Ser Garlan’s injuries. I’m sorry if the events of yesterday led to… the events of today. I do not wish to make you more upset, and I fear my presence is doing only that. I shall leave you now, but I hope you will summon me if I can be of any assistance.”

Sansa curtsied even though Margaery was now looking away, tears brimming in her eyes. Loras offered Sansa an apologetic smile. Sansa hoped in time Margaery would feel differently. Sansa had few lady friends. Actually, she had _no_ lady friends. Shireen and she were close, but Shireen was a few years younger. And while Shireen could carry an academic conversation, and had a certain wisdom only gained from the trials she had lived through and witnessed, she knew little of politics. Margaery, by contrast, understood the game they were all playing. Sansa would never trust her with her secrets, but it was nice to know someone else understood the impossible decisions the _royals_ faced on a daily basis. Margaery was also worldly in ways Shireen was not. Sansa would be mortified to even allude to something sexual in Shireen’s company, but Margaery was a woman thrice-wed, who didn’t so much as blush when such topics were raised.

For now, Sansa had to trust that Margaery would come to her senses once she was no longer consumed by grief. She rose from her curtsy and turned for the door.

**Tywin**

Tywin admired a man that could take a beating without resorting to crying, groveling, or whining.

These Sparrows were undeniably tough. They were also trained well – by someone – to not talk.

Ser Ilyn had pummeled the man’s face and body all afternoon, but he denied any knowledge of or involvement in the attack, which was ridiculous as Ser Andre caught him in the act.

Eventually he broke – but not enough. He claimed to be aware of the planned attack. He claimed it was an act of revenge against House Lannister, which held so much of the realm’s wealth yet watched the smallfolk go hungry. Tywin knew that was a farce; his house had given more gold to keep the commoners fed than any other house.

When the abuse didn’t stop, the man’s defensiveness turned to anger. He admitted his role in the attack, admitted he was the one who loosed the first arrow. He spoke of his only regret being that he was just a hair wide of his mark. Tywin knew what he was doing. He was prodding him, trying to anger Tywin enough that he’d slice his head clean off and end his suffering.

But Tywin was undeterred. The only way to protect his wife would be to learn everything about the attack, everything about the Sparrows.

But the man shut down then. Refusing to say another word even after Ser Ilyn broke the fingers on his left hand one at a time.

Tywin jutted his chin toward the door, “Leave us, and see to it no guards are standing outside the door.”

Ser Ilyn nodded and left.

Tywin paced the torchlit cell calmly, walking the perimeter like a wolf circling its prey. He borrowed from his wife’s sigil, for the motionless stalking of a lion wasn’t called for in this situation. He walked around the room several times, watching the man’s eye – the one that wasn’t swollen shut – follow him warily.

Finally, Tywin pulled a chair over until he sat across from the man, eye to eye. He slid the chair forward until his knees hit the inside if the man’s thighs, preventing him from closing his legs as men instinctively did to feel they had some protection in an otherwise hopeless situation.

“Do you know who killed King Joffrey?” Tywin asked quietly after some more time had passed.

The man glared at him, “The one they called Littlefinger.”

Tywin nodded slowly, “Indeed, that is what everyone believes, because that is the story _I_ sold them. Would you like to be one of two living people who knows the truth?”

The man wasn’t stupid. He shook his head, blood and sweat dripping off his face as he did.

“Too bad. The truth is _I_ killed King Joffrey. Poisoned him with something called the _Strangler_. And do you want to know why?”

The man spit out blood, “Because he was a fucking cunt?”

 _This man is no craven…_ Tywin permitted himself to smirk, “More specifically… because he attacked and raped my wife. Before she was my wife, of course.”

The man’s eye widened.

“Yes,” Tywin continued, “I killed my own grandson, my own king, because he hurt a woman who meant nothing to me but the kingdom she could bring my family.”

The man tried his best to look unfazed, “A _romantic_ tale. But why are you telling it?” More blood-tainted spittle leaked from his mouth as he spoke, and Tywin could see the places where Ser Ilyn had knocked out his teeth.

Tywin ignored the question, “I killed my own grandson because he hurt a woman I cared little for. But now? Now I love that woman. I love her more than all the gold in my homeland. I love her more than the kingdom she has given me. I love her more than I’ve ever loved _anyone._ So what do you think I’d do to a man who tried to kill her?”

The man’s jaw went slack. Tywin gave him a snarling smile, “You asked why I told you this story? Because it means now I have no choice but to kill you. You now know that I’m a kingslayer and a kinslayer both. You know a truth about me that could cost me my head. So there is no way in the Seven Hells that you’re leaving this cell alive. You have control over only one aspect of your future: whether you die swiftly and painlessly, or whether you die slowly, in ways so agonizing you can’t even imagine. But I _want_ you to imagine. I want you to make your decision from a well-informed position. Because once I start, I will not stop. You won’t be allowed to change your mind and beg for mercy…”

Tywin leaned back, “So here is what I will do, if you do not tell me everything you know about the Sparrows and the attack on my wife. I will start by peeling off your nipples with my dagger. Then I pry off every one of your toenails. Slowly, like one would peel a bandage from a weeping wound. I will use a soup spoon to remove one of your eyeballs – not both, because I want you to see _everything_ that happens to you. Like my next move, which will be to cut two intersecting slits across the top of your cock, then peel the skin away slowly, into four perfect strips. None of this is lethal, mind you, so while you may pass out from the pain, I will simply wait for you to awaken. Last but not least, I will have your legs tied to those of a table while your torso is tied to the surface. That alone will be painful, given the injuries you’ll have sustained by then. But the pain won’t end there. I will order every man under my command to sodomize you. Any who can’t manage to become _stimulated by_ such a prospect will have permission to use the pommel of their dagger or sword instead. You’ll have more seed spent in your arse in one day than a whore sees in a lifetime. And then – and only then – will I deliver a fatal blow. But it still won’t be a fast one. I’ll ram my shortsword up your already savaged whole, and I’ll leave it there. I’ll walk away. You’ll die slowly, either from bleeding inside yourself or, if you’re truly unlucky, from the infection that will set in when your bowels spill into your bloodstream.”

He paused to let the depraved imagery have its full impact.

“Now… if you answer all my questions truthfully, I will give you a swift death the moment my curiosity has been satisfied. If you refuse to answer any one of my questions, I will commence with the aforementioned plan. And as a reminder, once I start, I will not stop, no matter what you subsequently confess.”

The man’s face had gone pale, where it could be seen beyond the red of blood. “How do I know you won’t do all you’ve threatened even if I tell you what you want to know?”

“Simple. A Lannister always pays his debts. Right now, you are the man who tried to kill my wife. For that alone I will gladly deliver the painful death I’ve described. However, the threat to my wife will not die with you. If you tell me everything you know, I can better protect my wife. And for _that_ , I will owe you a debt. I will pay that debt gladly by giving you a merciful death.”

It took several agonizing moments, but the man finally nodded, looking completely defeated, “I will answer everything truthfully. But I do not _know_ everything. There will be some questions I cannot answer. Some questions only one man can answer. A man who I cannot even point you to. If you understand that and agree to not punish me for the things I _don’t_ know, then you have a deal, lion.”

“I accept your terms, but if I sense you are being evasive rather than genuinely ignorant, I will feel less inclined to uphold my end of the deal.”

The man nodded, “Ask your questions.”

“How many Sparrows are left?”

The man didn’t hesitate, “About two dozen, that I’m aware of. Minus any that were killed by your men since yesterday.”

“Where do they congregate?”

The man shook his head, “We rarely congregate, and never all at once. And always at different places. There are four groups, each with its own commander. Each commander reports to another man… I do not know his name. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he, too, reported to another man.”

“And it is not the High Septon?”

“If it is, I’m not aware.”

“So the Sparrows are operating independently of the Faith Militant?”

The man nodded, “If there is any connection, it’s at the levels I’m not exposed to. But I can tell you we have nothing to do with promoting the Faith of the Seven or protecting the practitioners of the Faith.”

“Then what is your purpose?”

The man shrugged again, “Now? You could say we’re like the Second Sons in Essos.”

“A group of mercenaries?”

“More like an assassins guild.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed at the implication, “So someone hired you to kill my wife?”

“Not me personally, but I would guess someone hired the Falcon, yes. Who told his commanders, who told us.”

“What was your exact mission?”

“To kill Lady Sansa Lannister.”

“No one else?”

“It was assumed her guards would become ancillary victims, but yes, she was our sole target.”

“And since you have failed, will the surviving Sparrows continue until they meet their objective?”

The man shrugged, “If the person who engaged them still wants it done. Half of the payment is received only after the target is eliminated. If the customer calls off the Falcon, or if the Falcon doubts we’ll get our full payment, then they won’t risk going after your wife a second time. That’s my understanding, anyway.”

“Who is this _Falcon?”_

“The leader that the four commanders answer to. The person who may or may not be the head of the snake, or rather, the bird.”

“You do not know his name?”

“I do not. If I’ve met him before – if he was a part of the Faith Militant that I was acquainted with, I couldn’t tell you, because I’ve never seen him in the flesh and my commander has never said his name. We all use codenames... Lark, canary, dove, raven, robin. The other groups are similar – cardinal, pigeon, starling, finch… The four commanders are eagle, hawk, grackle, and blackbird.”

“Are there any girls or women in any of the groups?”

The man frowned, seemingly confused by the question, “None that I’m aware of. It’s comprised only of former members of the Faith Militant.”

Tywin took a deep breath. Clearly, he’d instilled enough fear in the man to get the truth out of him. He detected no lie in his voice or his countenance.

“How would a person – a potential customer – get in touch with this _Falcon?”_

“That I couldn’t tell you. For all I know he doesn’t even live in the capital.”

Tywin shook his head. That was the single most important question, and it wouldn’t receive an answer.

He changed his tactic, trying to better understand what motivated this group so he might understand how to fracture it, “Why do this? Why live underground, live this solitary life… why not get a job that doesn’t involve killing? Were you not once a man of Faith?”

The man snorted, “Faith? Aye, I had faith. I studied to become a brother of the cloth, hoping to someday become a Septon. I moved here from the Riverlands when I was young, knowing this is where the people needed the most guidance in the ways of the Seven, the most guidance away from a life of sin. That was before the war. I kept my faith easily then, and still kept it through the war… I kept my faith right up until the moment I received word from my uncle that both of my younger sisters had been killed by the Mountain’s Men, along with my father.”

Tywin’s blood heated. He wasn’t accustomed to feeling shame, and he certainly didn’t want to be shamed by this man who tried to kill Sansa, but it could not be helped. All he could do was keep his features composed.

The man let out a mirthless chuckle, “Perhaps I should have taken the _other_ option, Lord Lannister. Then I’d know what my sisters felt like as they were passed from man to man. But I’m afraid I’m a coward…”

The man leaned forward as much as he could within his restraints, “It doesn’t surprise me that you would threaten _rape_ … after all, you set the Mountain loose in the Riverlands. Don’t tell me you didn’t know the damage he would leave in his wake. Don’t tell me you thought he would mete out clean deaths, or that he would only punish those involved in the rebellion and not the many innocents,” the man shook his head. “You want the truth, Lord Lannister? I know nothing of your wife other than that she’s said to be kind and beautiful, generous and fair. In fact, many of the men had reservations about our assignment. Killing some fat merchant? Some local creeper? That’s one thing. Killing a young lady the people love and respect? That’s quite different… But then I pictured my little sisters. I imagined the pain my father felt when he was made to watch everything that happened to them before, finally, they were allowed to die. And I hoped that perhaps you’d have the same look in your eyes when your wife’s corpse was carried through the gates of your fortress.”

He leaned back again, a look of pride on his face, “I’ve told you everything I know, and it’s all been the truth. Now, lion – pay your debt.”

Tywin should have waited… given himself a chance to think of any other questions. But as the man who tried to kill his wife stared at him as if _he_ were the real monster, Tywin couldn’t bear another moment. He felt like this man had witnessed him in some crime, and there was only one possible course of action for Tywin to take.

His sword was drawn and slicing clean through the man’s neck before he had time to flinch. It was a perfect strike that Ser Ilyn, Jaime, and the Hound would admire, but Tywin felt no pride.


	59. The Importance of Planning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't already done so, please go back to Ch. 56 and read it. I had accidentally missed a chapter when posting to AO3 last week.

**Amyra**

She hated being wrong. It was without a doubt the least pleasant emotion a person could have, in her not-so-humble opinion.

She had heard so many things about the _Great Lioness_ during her travels. Things she thought were lies, exaggerations, and propaganda.

In the early part of Lady Lannister’s marriage, it had been widely said that the Old Lion had married her because of her claim on the northern kingdom. That was easy to believe. But there were also whispered rumors that he married her to protect her from the _other lions._ Of course, the lady was an asset, and men like Tywin Lannister protected their assets, so it all made sense.

Other rumors began to spread as far as Essos. That the _true king_ on the throne wasn’t Tommen Baratheon but Tywin Lannister, and that his lady wife was the true queen – a beloved one, at that. A queen that cared about her people because she was a Stark, after all, and Starks cared. Songs were sung far and wide about the wolf who tamed the lion. There was also one about a lone she-wolf making an entire pride of lions bow to her command. Amyra even remembered one that was sung shortly after Cersei’s death… about a wolf in the lion’s den that was picking off the lions one by one, but because the wolf was dressed as a sheep, none of the lions suspected her.

Later, there was a song about the Mother taking over the body of a young lady of court to see her people through a very dark time. Amyra’s favorite was one about a pride of three lions that took down a mighty kraken. One of the lions was small, with tiny claws and teeth. Another lion was missing one paw. The other lion wasn’t even a lion – it was a lion _ess_. Yet together the three were stronger than the mythical beast of the sea.

Sometime after that, nearly every minstrel would sing a solemn tune about two queens facing off – one on the back of a dragon, the other on the back of a lion. The dragon queen should have easily been able to dispatch the lion queen, but the lion queen was clever and used her words to bring the dragon under some type of spell, along with its rider.

Dragons inspired quite a few songs around that time and subsequently, when the three dragons each had a rider – one a true dragon, another a wolf, and another a lion – all living in the capital. Looking for the wolf dragon rider was what brought her back to Westeros, though she had some matters to attend to before she could head to the capital.

All the while, during her time in Essos and her travels across Westeros, Amyra did not believe any of the songs and rumors about the lioness – Lady Sansa Lannister. That she was a councilor of King Tommen. That she was beloved by all the people of King’s Landing. That she was not simply a well-dressed hostage of House Lannister.

But when Amyra finally arrived in the capital she saw for herself. She saw and heard the people in absolute revery of Lady Lannister. _Mother Sansa_. She caught a few glimpses of the woman herself. She was tall and straight-backed, beautiful in the way winter is: while being cold and dangerous.

She was guarded as a great lady should be, but she didn’t use the guards to create a bubble around herself as she entered each shelter. She spoke with the children, men and women living there. She spoke to the staff. She also stopped at small septs that provided food to the poor; she donated some coins from her own pocket. The people watched her like she was a goddess, yet she didn’t carry herself like one. Though her posture was impeccable, there was no conceit in her gait or in her eyes.

When Amyra saw her up close for the first time, she noticed a scar running down the lady’s left cheek. A different lady that Amyra once knew would have been horrified to display such a flaw. She would have covered it with thick powder. But this lady wore it like a badge of honor. Or perhaps she simply didn’t notice or care about it anymore. Though Amyra had plenty of scars of her own, she felt an odd desire to find out who had given this scar to this lady and kill the bastard. If she found out it was the lady’s husband? _Well, that would make things very simple, wouldn’t it?_

The husband, unfortunately, never seemed to leave the Red Keep. But once Amyra got herself inside the castle walls – thanks to a bit of luck and quick thinking – she saw him for herself. She recalled this man from years past with an odd combination of respect and enmity. He was on her list, but she never felt the same hatred when she spoke his name as when she spoke other names – like Joffrey, Walder Frey, Ilyn Payne, the Mountain… Perhaps because he had kept her secret – didn’t tell anyone that his cupbearer was a girl. She had analyzed that fact many times over the years but could only explain it as an act of protection on his part. And why would a man as merciless as Tywin Lannister was said to be protect a girl who had tried to dupe him? The only explanation was that he wasn’t as bad as rumors suggested. When she was young, she was frightened and fascinated by _The Rains of Castamere._ But now that she knew firsthand the satisfaction one can get by wiping out an entire family that has wronged yours, she developed a new appreciation for the verses and the true story that inspired them.

But he was still a Lannister, and her list had gotten too short. Joffrey, Cersei, and Ser Meryn were dead and Amyra couldn’t even take responsibility for their deaths. There were rumors that Beric Dondarrion was dead. So far, she had only seen to Walder Frey.

That left only the Mountain, the Hound, Tywin Lannister, Thoros of Myr, the Red Priestess, and Ser Ilyn Payne. And she needed to prioritize. Of all those, the Mountain was the worst. She was still haunted by the screams she had heard at Harrenhal when the Mountain’s Men were torturing their captives – _innocent_ captives. Her screams would have been added to the chorus had Tywin Lannister not arrived when he did.

Ser Ilyn Payne was a distant second. He was the one who took Ned Stark’s head, but he didn’t seem to enjoy hurting and killing the way the Mountain did.

After that was the Hound, because he had killed Mycah for no good reason, no matter what Cersei and Robert said. There was a brief time she had almost forgiven him, knowing that he was only following orders, like Ser Ilyn. But since then, she had come to have experience receiving unsavory orders. She had defied those orders, suffered the punishment for it, and came out even stronger. Perhaps if their loyal dog disobeyed them, the king and queen would realize their orders were shite. Perhaps a wolf never would have died. Perhaps everything would have been different…

But it was no matter. She had come to this city for one wolf but would have to settle for another, as the wolf she was looking for left on his dragon shortly after Amyra arrived. Killing the Hound, Ser Ilyn, or Lord Tywin would interfere with what she hoped to accomplish. Harming any members of the royal household would only raise alarms around the castle. The buggering attack on Lady Lannister had already done enough of that. So for now she was resigned to wait and watch and slowly devise her plan. It was easy enough. She could move around the busy courtyard unheard and unseen, and she knew how to get to the underground tunnels. She had explored them years ago, and never forgot. She particularly knew the ones that led out of (or into) the Tower of the Hand, where she had lived a long time ago – before everything went to shite.

So it was easy enough to watch the wolf lady and her lion husband through a peephole that no one else had used in some time, judging by the lack of footprints on the dust-covered floor. It was late the night of the attack on Lady Lannister – or perhaps early the following morning. Amyra had hoped to see how the lion treated his wolf in private. His display inside the gates today showed a man deeply concerned for his wife’s wellbeing, but Amyra didn’t trust what was shown when spectators were around.

Unfortunately, the wolf was asleep, and the lion stared at her but did not wake her. Instead he spoke to the babe he held her in his arms. Amyra couldn’t hear every word as he was speaking barely above a whisper, but she heard enough.

_“The first part of your name… short for Joanna. … She was my best friend. … Perhaps they meant that she ruled my heart. … The second part… Catelyn Tully Stark. … Also a beautiful woman, like your mother. … Though trout by birth, she was a true she-wolf. … I am not a good man, Jo… If I had to choose between the lives of every living person in the realm, or you and your mother, I’d choose you two. … I’d work day and night to keep you and your mother fed. … It doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”_

Amyra had to creep away, so she didn’t know what else was said. She didn’t like hearing that Tully woman’s name; it brought forth emotions Amyra wasn’t equipped to handle. She also didn’t like hearing the Old Lion speak this way – like he was just a normal, loving husband and father. A man like Ned Stark. It angered her to think that Tywin Lannister might have anything in common with Ned Stark. One was callous, the other kind. One was cold, the other warm. One was greedy, the other generous. One was harsh, the other fair.

_And yet…_

_And yet, a person’s truth is revealed when they think no one is watching._

And that meant things were _not_ simple. Things were complicated. She had thought things were one way, but she was wrong. And she _hated_ being wrong.

**Sansa**

Sansa was exhausted after a night of restless sleep. Tywin had told her everything he’d learned from the Sparrow that had been captured. The Sparrows weren’t acting as part of some conspiracy to create chaos, or to weaken House Lannister. No, they had targeted Sansa specifically – which meant someone paid to have her assassinated. Which meant someone somewhere _still_ wanted her dead.

She considered who it might be.

For all the reasons she discussed with Tywin, she didn’t think it was someone trying to make a play for Winterfell. Too many others would need to be killed, and there was no guarantee that the perpetrator would be named Warden in the end.

That meant the act was _personal_. Someone wanted her dead because they hated her or her husband. Dorne came to mind first. Oberyn Martell was known to hold a grudge against Houses Lannister and Baratheon for allowing Elia Martell and her children to be killed. But Oberyn struck Sansa as a man who would kill the person he held a vendetta against – not that person’s spouse.

If Olenna Tyrell were still alive, Sansa would suspect her. The woman was cunning and not above murder. She had felt slighted when Tywin married Sansa himself rather than allowing a match to be made between Sansa and Lord Willas. But Olenna was dead, and none of the other Tyrells seemed to share the old woman’s grudge. In fact, Margaery and Garlan both had seemed amused by their grandmother’s sense of being cheated.

Could it be someone in the West resented Sansa for marrying their liege lord? Perhaps some woman who’d tried to seduce Tywin over the years? Sansa had been labeled a traitor at the time Tywin married her; who in the West or perhaps the Crownlands might think she wasn’t worthy of his name?

There were also the Iron Born living in the Iron Islands under Asha Greyjoy’s leadership. Sansa knew of no love between Asha and her uncle Euron, but the Iron Born were a proud people… perhaps they felt obligated to avenge their brethren, who Sansa had a hand in killing.

Yet this theory didn’t seem plausible, either. It wasn’t the Iron Born way to send an assassin. They didn’t strive to keep their hands clean; rather, they lived for brutality.

Could some Frey or Bolton have survived and sought to kill the last trueborn Stark? This was plausible, perhaps even the most viable theory she had. Though the Boltons wouldn’t be satisfied in killing Sansa alone. They would want to kill Jon, who fought alongside Tywin to rid Winterfell of Ramsay and his men. They would want to kill Tywin, too, for that matter. And the few surviving Freys were thought to be loyal to Tywin. Their new patriarch, Emmon, was married to Genna. Would one Frey man, acting rogue, be able to raise enough gold to finance Sansa’s murder? She couldn’t imagine the price on a Lannister head was cheap. Still, it was a possibility.

Yet none of these theories felt right to Sansa. If it was about vengeance, then why hire assassins? Men were primal beasts; they took pleasure in wringing the neck of a man who had wronged them. To send an assassin – no, to pay handsomely for an entire group of assassins, one would need to _benefit_ from her death in some way. She considered who might benefit from her death, and her death alone… the death of Lady Lannister. Of Sansa Stark. Of the Hand’s wife. Of the king’s grandmother by law.

Sansa sat forward so abruptly that Shireen was startled, “Sansa?”

“I’m well, Shireen… just… my stomach is feeling sour this morning.”

“Shall I call for the maester?”

“No… I’d rather see if it passes. But I think I shall go to my bedchamber to lay down.”

Shireen nodded, “Alright. I’ll finish up with the ledgers then and see myself out.”

Sansa smiled as best she could, then swept into her bedchamber where she could think in peace.

Like all epiphanies, once she had it, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t known it sooner. Sure enough, the evidence was plain as day – not in words spoken or in actions taken against her, but in things never said, in sentiments never expressed.

Never had she seen jealousy, but it must _surely_ be there. Sansa knew what was said about the royal family – that Tywin was the true king, which meant Sansa was the true queen. She knew what was said about her, personally – the _mother of the people._ Queen Margaery ventured beyond the gates and threw coins and flowers to the smallfolk, yet it was Sansa they worshipped – Sansa who didn’t want their reverence anymore, not Margaery who very much _did_.

And yet never had Margaery – a woman who defined herself by what others saw in her – give any hint of envy. She was almost cloyingly sweet to Sansa. _Except yesterday_ – when the pain of her miscarriage and her brother’s injuries had been too fresh. Pain stripped away her mask of charm. And for those brief moments, Sansa saw the woman behind the mask. Some might say Margaery hadn’t been in her right mind, but Sansa knew the truth of it. Sansa knew that pain and hardship revealed a person’s true nature. When Sansa lost her father, her inner wolf came out for the first time as she tried to get to Joffrey – to throw him off the walkway. After her mother and brother died Sansa berated the mighty Tywin Lannister in front of his entire guard detail. Neither action had been a farce.

Sansa spent the entire morning considering the situation from all angles. She stopped herself multiple times from marching to Margaery’s bedchamber and lobbing her accusation.

_Because a rose’s thorns are sharp._

Instead she planned her approach, going so far as to recite her words. Lunchtime came and went, and finally she had a plan. She stepped out of her bedchamber, pleased to know Sandor was among the guards.

“I must speak to Lord Tyrion briefly about an urgent matter, then I wish to visit Lady Margaery to inquire as to her health.”

Sandor raised an eyebrow, “Your husband says it’s best you stay here.”

“Indeed, and I intend to. But a short trip to the family keep shan’t be an issue. He had no qualms about me leaving to see Tommen and Margaery yesterday. It’s not like I’m fluttering about the courtyard.”

Sandor grunted, and Sansa knew she’d gotten her way.

…

“How are you faring today, your grace?”

Sansa watched as Margaery’s maid fussed over her pillows and blankets, then the young woman took her leave.

“I am well, Sansa. Humiliated though, that I took my grief and anger out on you.”

Sansa smiled, “Margaery, we’re friends enough that I don’t need an apology. I myself have been known to misdirect anger from time to time.” She took the seat beside Margaery’s bed.

“It doesn’t make it right, dear Sansa, but I love you all the more for your forgiving heart.”

“It’s easy to forgive your words when I can understand the sentiment behind them. Truly, I feel awful about poor Ser Garlan. He has been so kind to me, and his actions were so brave… If it weren’t that Maester Pycelle expects him to make a full recovery, I’d be lost in my own grief and guilt.”

Margaery sighed, “Garlan is a knight sworn to protect the innocent. He wouldn’t want you to feel guilty for accepting his protection.”

“Of course. I know that. It’s only…”

“Only what, Sansa?”

Sansa answered with a shy shrug, “Only he has been so kind. Kinder to me than any man I’ve ever met, save my own family.”

Margaery’s eyes became livelier, but her voice remained steady, “Oh?”

For as much as Sansa blushed against her will, she couldn’t force herself to do it now. So she simply made her voice sound coy _,_ “I suppose there is nothing wrong with enjoying the attentions of a handsome young man.”

Margaery’s eyebrow arched up, “Especially when one is married to such an _old_ man…”

This time Sansa did blush. Speaking against her husband, even if only as part of her scheme, was painful and degrading, “Tywin is very good to me.”

Margaery smiled, “But?”

“But nothing!” Sansa forced her voice to squeak.

“You’re too good to say it, Sansa, so I will. You wish you’d been married to a Tyrell instead. Handsome and intelligent Willas. Or our dashing Garlan, if only he hadn’t been wed to Lady Leonette.”

Sansa waved her hand dismissively, “Nonsense. A girl’s fantasies, and nothing more. I am married to the most powerful man in the realm, and he treats me well. I have no cause for complaint.”

All at once Margaery’s smile dropped away, “Indeed. Your husband is quite a powerful man.”

“Oh don’t mistake me, Margaery – being Lady of Highgarden would have been a splendid honor… but to be the Lord Hand’s wife… to be able to help him rule our great kingdom… sometimes I forget he isn’t the king, and I his queen,” at her last words she widened her eyes, pretending to be shocked by herself. “Oh, Margaery, I didn’t mean—”

“I know exactly what you mean, Sansa. Do you think I am blind and deaf? Do you think I don’t hear what all the courtiers say – that Tywin is king in all but name?”

“Margaery, it will take time for Tommen to come into his own.”

“Tommen is a child,” she hissed, “and he is too soft to ever be a venerated king.”

“Margaery, surely you don’t mean—”

“Stop playing dumb, Sansa. I see the way you coddle him like a child. He adores you. He hangs on your every word. I thought I’d be done with interfering mothers after Cersei died. It seems I just got one who is better able to hide her intentions behind doe eyes and sweet words.”

“Margaery, you are still upset from yesterday. Perhaps the maester has given you too much milk of the poppy, or—”

“I know exactly what I’m saying. As long as you and your husband are here, no one will see me as the Queen and Tommen as the King. You get to galivant around the city, winning everyone’s hearts, while I sit in the throne room wearing a crown that no one respects anymore.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Margaery, but you must know that it is not my intent. And Tywin and I will not live here forever. Someday we will retire to Casterly Rock.”

Margaery snorted, “When? Ten years from now? After Tommen has proven to be incapable and your husband has put someone else on the throne? What do you think my chances are of marrying a _fourth_ king?”

The time for playing dumb was over. Sansa needed to get the truth to come out, “Margaery, you speak as if you wish Tywin and I weren’t here…”

“Would _you_ want you around? If you were the queen, would you want some other man and woman around, manipulating your husband? Ruling the realm and leaving you as nothing but a figurehead?”

Sansa stood up, taking a long sigh, “No, I wouldn’t. And the truth is, I don’t want to be that _other woman_ , either. This city disgusts me. There is nothing here but painful memories and rotten stink. You wish me gone? You wish my husband gone? Fine, then prove yourself capable of running the kingdoms, so we don’t have to do it for you.”

Margaery’s eyes widened into saucers, “You dare?!”

“I dare. What do you know of ruling, Margaery? You are nothing but another Cersei Lannister, an entitled woman who thinks the world should bow to her not because she is worthy, but because she is highborn and beautiful. There is more to being a queen than fucking the king, Margaery.”

“You!” Margaery’s face reddened, “You compare _me_ to Cersei Lannister?!”

“Actually, no. Because at least Cersei Lannister had _initiative_. At least she had _balls!_ Do you know she tried to have me killed? Do you know she tried to have Tywin killed? All to protect her place beside Tommen. I hated that woman, but at least I can say she wasn’t some _wilted_ flower.”

“You think _I’m_ a wilted flower?! You think I’m not capable of making hard decisions? Of taking initiative?!”

Sansa chuckled, “Tell me one hard decision you’ve made. Tell me one thing you did that took courage, took gumption.”

Margaery leaned forward and sneered, “How about paying to have you killed?”

Sansa pretended to be shocked. It wasn’t truly difficult; a big part of her thought Margaery would never admit it.

“That’s right, _sweet Sansa…_ how long did you think I’d let you play queen?”

“You… but your brother almost died!”

Margaery’s smile fell away, but she fortified herself, lifting her chin, “He wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“He told me you sent him.”

Margaery rolled her eyes, “He lied. He just likes to be near you. He’s just another stupid puppy, trailing after your skirts and hoping you’ll give him a treat.”

Sansa shook her head, “You’ve been bedridden. I’m supposed to believe you orchestrated such a conspiracy with the Sparrows from your bed? Those men never leave the shadows.”

Margaery shrugged, “As difficult as this may be for you to believe, I still have friends in this city.”

Sansa snorted, “You mean your _brother_? I never took Loras for a fool.”

“It’s amazing what brothers will do for their sisters. If you don’t believe me, ask _Ser Jaime_.”

Sansa wondered what Margaery was implying. Sansa, like the rest of the realm, was all but certain that Jaime and Cersei had a romantic relationship, but Margaery’s tone alluded to something even more criminal, if that was possible. Nonetheless, she wouldn’t let Margaery take control over the conversation. Sansa leaned over the queen, “You are a fool, Margaery. You just confessed to conspiracy to commit murder. You confessed it to _me –_ a trusted member of the small council. You incriminated yourself and your brother.”

Margaery leaned back too casually, “I did. And you’re not going to do a damned thing about it.”

“And why is that, pray tell?”

Margaery licked her lips like a hungry dog, “Because I know your secret.”

“What secret?”

“Do you think my grandmother didn’t tell me what she had planned with the Old Lion? She reassured me I would never be bedded by that cretin; that she and Lord Tywin were taking care of it.”

Of all the things that could have come out of Margaery’s mouth, that was not one Sansa was expecting or even remotely prepared for. Sansa had to improvise, “I know not of what you speak, but even if you are correct, you have no proof. It would be your word against Tywin’s.”

“Would it?” she gloated, “My grandmother procured the poison from someone. That means _someone_ else knows. Probably a few _someones...”_

“None who could link it to Tywin.”

“Perhaps,” Margaery shrugged, “or perhaps not. But even if I can’t prove your husband committed regicide, there are other ways I can ruin your life.”

Sansa was too afraid to ask, so she said nothing. Margaery smiled wistfully, “It’s amazing what our servants see and hear. My maid has it on good authority from your daughter’s wetnurse that a certain _young lion_ spends a lot of time in your private chambers. And the sounds she hears are not those of a casual conversation. A young lion who you became very close to while your husband was away treating with your people. A young lion who was almost your husband. Yes, Joffrey told me how it was supposed to be you and Ser Jaime. Let me guess, that wasn’t enough for you? You wanted the Old Lion’s prowess in the throne room and the Young Lion’s prowess in the bedroom?”

Sansa hated that her first reaction was fear even though she wasn’t guilty of the crime Margaery was alluding to. She tried to hide her nervousness, but Margaery saw it and her grin widened.

Sansa shook her head, “No one will believe that. Ser Jaime would never betray his father, and I would never betray my husband!”

“Only one person needs to believe it. A person who I imagine would not take kindly to being cuckolded.”

“You have no proof of either of these allegations!”

“Fine,” Margaery crossed her arms, “then go accuse me of trying to have you murdered. You have no proof either, or have you forgotten? And after you make your accusation, my defense will be that you are doing it to get rid of me because I know a dirty little secret about you and your _goodson…_ or because I have incriminating knowledge about your husband. It will be your word against mine… and I’d think long and hard before you accuse _me_ of anything… is Highgarden’s support not keeping your Northmen alive through winter? Perhaps I shall write to my brother; tell him to be less… generous.”

Sansa lowered her head, knowing what she must do, though she had only been prepared to do it as a last resort, “You win Margaery. What do you want?”

Margaery snorted, “I _wanted_ you dead. I wanted your husband, in his grief and rage, to rip apart the city so people would see what kind of man the _Lord Hand_ truly is. I _wanted_ him to flee back to Casterly Rock with his heart and pride broken. But that didn’t work out, did it? So I suppose my plan must be amended… You will convince your husband that you are not safe here. Demand he take you to Casterly Rock immediately and remain there with you and your daughter.”

“He will not leave Tommen—”

“He will, if you give him an ultimatum: Tommen or you. Lord Tyrion can stay, but my brother and father will also stay on the small council.”

“And who will take my husband’s position as Hand?”

Margaery frowned, “If it must be Tyrion to get you and your husband out of this city, then so be it.”

Sansa sighed, “Margaery, I _beg_ you to reconsider. My husband and I are doing good for the city.”

“You’re doing good that _I_ should be doing. _I_ should be the one the people love. It should be _my_ son or daughter the entire castle dotes on, not yours. Because of that business with the north that _you_ insisted could not wait, my wedding was delayed almost a year. I should have already birthed the next heir. _I_ should be the one the people call ‘mother’ – not you!”

Sansa walked to the sideboard and poured herself a glass of Dornish Red. “If I agree to this… if I go to Casterly Rock with Tywin, then what you know – what you _think_ you know – it goes with you to your grave. This will _not_ be something you wield over us for the rest of our lives. I want your word, Margaery, even if the word of a Tyrell isn’t worth nearly as much as the word of a Stark.”

Margaery ignored the insult. It was always said that Tyrells were schemers. Sansa had always agreed with that appraisal but never so much as she did now. Margaery nodded, “I agree, but the same goes for what you _suspect_ about my involvement in the foiled murder attempt on your life.”

“Very well. And my other condition is that you tell me the name of this man who leads the Sparrows. I’ll see him dead, but I’ll make sure he does not bring you down with him.”

Margaery giggled, “He’s already dead, you fool. Your husband killed him yesterday. And based on the fact that I’m still alive, I know the man did _not_ try to bring me down with him.”

Sansa wasn’t sure whether to believe this, but she detected no deceit in Margaery’s voice.

“How did you meet this man, anyway? How did you know the type of _services_ you could procure from him?”

“My grandmother prided herself on her knowledge and her connections more than anything else. More than our wealth, our beauty, our roses… She had considered him for a particular problem some time ago, until a less risky solution presented itself.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, “Joffrey.”

Margaery’s eyebrows lifted innocently. Sansa interpreted it as confirmation.

“You’ll get your wish Margaery, but whoever of my family stays in the capital must remain safe. If you mean to eliminate Tyrion, or Ser Jaime…”

Margaery crossed her arms, “I don’t. That would only make the Old Lion come roaring back into the city, wouldn’t it?”

Sansa nodded weakly and returned to Margaery’s bedside, handing the queen a goblet, “To our new _alliance_ … may neither of us live to regret it.” They clinked glasses and Sansa downed her wine in four pulls, Margaery drinking hers at a more ladylike pace.

**Tywin**

Tywin tossed and turned through another restless night. Someone out there wanted Sansa dead; someone who was unlikely to stop after the first failed attempt. He’d considered nearly every man or woman who’d ever come into contact with Sansa along with those that had grievances against her family. He even considered those who might have grievances against _him._ Unfortunately, as the now-dead Sparrow pointed out, there were quite a few of those. He had set Gregor and his men loose on the Riverlands the way one might bring barn cats into a rat-infested cellar. He knew Ser Gregor was not a man prone to giving merciful deaths, or to make the distinction between enemy and innocent, but Tywin didn’t care. Gregor was an effective weapon for instilling fear into any who might be deciding which side to join. Few wanted to go against the man who held Gregor Clegane’s leash.

Yet what kind of hypocrite did it make Tywin that he allowed Gregor to rape and destroy with impunity while hating the memory of the Mad King who did the same? Were none of the women raped by Ser Gregor loved by their husbands the way Tywin loved Joanna? And Ser Gregor was but one man; what of the dozens, perhaps hundreds of Lannister men who raped and ravaged the people of the capital while Tywin fought to get to the throne room, to yank the Mad King down? What of the whores abused by Joffrey while Tywin sat back and felt a sense of accomplishment that it was no longer Sansa being harmed? What of the whore that his youngest son had been fool enough to marry?

Tywin turned to watch his own wife sleeping fitfully beside him. What would he do to any man who harmed Sansa in such a way? It was a rhetorical question; he’d kill them. Without pause, without mercy, and without regret. Yet Gregor Clegane and other monsters were allowed to live so long as their evil deeds benefited House Lannister.

_How many enemies have I made? Could any of them be behind the attack on Sansa?_

The idea of it made his stomach churn. All his life he’d known his reputation for cruelty protected those he cared about – his children, his brothers and sister, his bannermen, even his retainers… but now for the first time he wondered if the same reputation is what nearly got his wife killed…

He was sure of only one thing: he’d get no rest until he knew for certain.


	60. A Debt Paid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to take a moment to thank ALL OF YOU LOVELY READERS. I cannot believe how many people commented on Chapter 59. Clearly it brought out some strong feelings about Margaery. I'm glad to know that the scene was compelling and not OOC. And it was really nice to see some comments from new usernames. Welcome! I live for comments and try to respond to most of them though I probably won't reply to all those on Chapter 59 because there were a lot.
> 
> Now, onto the next chapter...

**Tyrion**

_A Lannister always pays his debts._

Tyrion used the phrase often, as did all members of his house. Yet never had he truly appreciated the meaning until now. Paying a debt, for him, typically meant seeing to it that someone who had done him a favor was given a proportionate amount of gold. It was easy to hand out coins when you were a Lannister. Frankly, Tyrion never even appreciated the value of that gold that was mined from deep in his family’s lands.

But now, standing in the Royal Apartments, just outside the queen’s bedchamber, he understood what paying a debt truly meant. He understood the burden it could be, and that it was indeed a phrase that Lannisters should be proud of – because paying a debt was not always so easy as tossing someone a few coins. Sometimes paying a debt meant ripping out a piece of your soul.

He tried to push these troublesome thoughts away. The time for self-reflection was later. The time for self-preservation was now, so he took in everything around him. The reactions he witnessed around him could not be more diverse.

Tommen was in apparent shock. Tyrion was glad for it because he could _not_ endure his nephew’s tears just now. It had been bad enough after Cersei…

Ser Loras was in a similar state, staring at the scene with dead eyes, seemingly not understanding what happened.

Lord Mace was a blubbering mess, crying and clutching at his only daughter’s body. Margaery’s cousins were similarly grief-stricken, holding each other and trying to offer comfort amongst themselves.

Tyrion’s own father was clenching and unclenching his jaw, no doubt already trying to decide who the next queen would be, and how to stay ingratiated with the Tyrells.

Tyrion’s _goodmother_ was ashen, her wide eyes never blinking. Despite the pallor of her face she stood stoic and tall. Anyone else might interpret her appearance as an indication of shock. Tyrion knew better.

Tyrion’s brother seemed pensive as he focused on Tommen. Jaime was watching closely for a sign the boy would break. And he _was_ a boy. Tyrion thought of his sweet nephew, just turned seven and ten. When Tyrion was seven and ten, he thought he knew everything. Looking back now, he knew nothing.

_And poor Tommen knows even less._

At least Tommen had a pure heart. And Tommen was well aware that he didn’t know everything, unlike Tyrion at that age.

Both maesters Pycelle and Lantell had been summoned and had already done a cursory examination to look for signs of foul play. They would find none, Tyrion knew.

“Your Grace,” Pycelle spoke toward Tommen. The boy didn’t look up and the old maester turned to Tywin instead, “Lord Hand… shall we provide our report here or…”

Tywin shook his head, almost imperceptibly, “In the Small Council room. Tyrion, Lady Sansa, with me. Ser Jaime, stay with your king.”

“What about Lord Mace?” Tyrion asked.

Tywin glanced briefly into the bedchamber, “I will update him later. For now, leave him with his family.”

They were joined in the council room by Lord Varys, who looked appropriately contrite.

Tywin wasted not a moment, “Please, maesters, proceed.”

Pycelle glanced at his younger counterpart before speaking, “There were no external signs of a struggle, Lord Hand. Lady Margaery’s handmaiden reported she found Lady Margaery sleeping yesterday evening when she arrived to deliver the evening meal. She let the queen sleep and took to one of the bedside chairs, so she’d be at the queen’s service upon her waking. The maid herself fell asleep and didn’t wake until very early this morning. She noted Queen Margaery was still asleep and her food untouched. The maid went back to sleep and when she woke again, just before dawn, she thought it best to wake the queen so she might eat. She lit some lanterns and noticed the queen’s face was quite pale. When she tried to rouse her grace, she felt her skin was cool and firm to the touch. Her cries alerted the guards who confirmed Queen Margaery was dead and summoned the king.”

Tywin nodded once, “And the maid is certain that Margaery was alive at dinnertime?”

“Quite certain, Lord Hand. She claims to have checked on the queen for signs of fever, which I had notified all the maids to watch for.”

“And the maid did not leave the chambers all night?”

“When she woke in the early hours of the morn’, she left for but a few minutes to use the privy, but we are certain that the queen was already deceased by that point,” Lantell spoke assuredly.

“How are you certain?”

“The level of rigor in her muscles when Maester Pycelle and I arrived at dawn indicates several hours since expiration. The maid estimates only two hours passed between her first waking and second.”

Tywin nodded, “And Queen Margaery was well, earlier in the day?”

Pycelle nodded, “Reasonably so, given her recent ailment. I had checked on her twice. She was fatigued and emotionally strained, but physically? She showed no signs of infection or fever.”

Sansa nodded, “I saw her in the afternoon. She was obviously quite distraught about the recent misfortunes, however nothing about her seemed _physically_ wrong. I’m sure others stopped by to visit her; we can check with them.”

Tywin took a deep breath, “What do you suppose caused her to expire?” he directed at the maesters.

Lantell responded, “In my opinion, my lord, the physical and emotional traumas she has endured exacerbated a chronic issue. Queen Margaery was among those afflicted by the plague. She lost a cousin and grandmother to it, showing the Tyrell blood is indeed vulnerable. My theory is that her heart never fully recovered and thus were not equipped to handle the recent strains she has endured.”

Pycelle nodded, “I would agree with the young maester’s assessment, but the only way to know for certain would be to perform a medical examination.”

Tyrion winced, “Is that necessary? To desecrate a queen’s body when you both seem confident in her cause of death?”

Lantell shrugged, “It is the king’s decision, of course, at the advisement of his Small Council, however the only way to rule out foul play is to check for evidence of poison.”

“Poison?” Sansa gasped, “Is this…” she turned to her husband, “Do you believe this is related to the attack on me?”

Tyrion noted with a shiver of fear that Sansa was a much better mummer than she’d been in the past.

Tywin shook his head, “I don’t know. Clearly, we must speak to Tommen and Lord Mace about their wishes. Until then, maesters, do nothing. Lord Varys, ask around… find out what you can about this handmaiden – has she herself been dissatisfied with her mistress? Find out if anyone in the Royal Apartments has seen or heard anything suspicious or out of the ordinary.”

Pycelle, Lantell, and Varys bowed and left, leaving only Tywin, Tyrion, and Sansa.

“Tyrion, make preparations for the funeral. Sansa and I will draft letters to send to the other kingdoms, then we will begin deliberating on who might take Margaery’s place.”

Tyrion looked to Sansa, waiting for her to say something, but she remained quiet.

With a nod, Tyrion left. He was – as morbid as it sounded – glad to have some experience planning royal funerals, because he didn’t think he’d be able to commit much focus to his task just now. Instead, he replayed the previous afternoon in his mind, wondering why he had agreed. Wondering why he hadn’t asked more questions. Wondering whether this would come back to haunt him.

It had been sometime after the midday meal when Sansa arrived at his chambers unexpectedly. She was uninterested in returning the pleasantries he offered, and he could tell she was troubled. He had expected her to say something about the recent attack on her life, but instead she spoke quietly, _“What did you do with the poison Cersei had intended for your father?”_

Tyrion was ashamed that if his own brother asked the same question, he would have claimed to have disposed of the liquid immediately after taking custody of it. But Sansa… Tyrion trusted Sansa, more than any living person. She had kept his deepest secret – his act of kinslaying. She saw the worst sides of him – the spiteful, jealous, violent sides of him, and loved him anyway. And perhaps his trust for her was also born of their shared experience orchestrating a campaign of mass death, like soldiers on a battlefield who bond over their interdependent survival while watching each other’s back.

Sansa was the sister, mother, and friend he’d never had. She was the antithesis of Cersei – the sister who tormented Tyrion instead of protecting him. She was the replacement of Joanna – the sweet mother he never met. She was his co-conspirator, his confidante.

So the answer had come quite simply, _“Hidden in a safe place.”_

Sansa had nodded, _“I need it, and I can’t tell you why I need it, just that it will only be used to protect our family, if it needs to be used at all.”_

Tyrion was almost too stunned to fully appreciate the magnitude of the situation. When minutes later he handed her the clear vial containing amber liquid, she exhaled in relief, _“What do you know of this?”_

Tyrion shrugged, _“I’ve feared asking any maester, though I suspect, oddly, that I could trust Qyburn with such an inquiry. I’ve done my own research and am nearly certain it’s Nightshade.”_

Sansa nodded, _“I’ve heard the name, but do not know how it works.”_

_“You’ve heard of it because it’s believed to be one of the most commonly used poison in all of Westeros. I say “believed” because it kills without a trace. It works by gradually slowing the heart until it stops pumping altogether. As a result, its victims simply go to sleep and never wake up.”_

_“What makes you think it is Nightshade?”_

_“It’s color, for one. There are only three known poisons that are amber. It’s scent, for two. It has an earthy scent, whereas the two other amber poisons have bitter scents. And three, I must believe Cersei was smart enough to request something untraceable. She told Jaime that at father’s age, no one would suspect foul play. That would imply the poison itself would leave no external hints to its presence within.”_

Sansa looked almost tangibly relieved, _“Thank you, Tyrion. I will owe you.”_

Tyrion chuckled despite the very morbid subject matter, _“I believe I have owed you for some time. Let’s consider this a Lannister paying his debt. Only, if I might request something, Sansa…”_

_“Anything, Tyrion.”_

He sighed, _“If you must use it, please don’t get caught. You’re my favorite Lannister.”_

Her stony countenance broke for the first time since she’d entered his chambers, _“I’m telling Jaime you said that.”_

**Sansa**

“You should rest,” Tywin spoke in a low voice as they walked back toward their apartments. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, and for a moment she didn’t know if he’d been talking to her.

“Pardon, my lord?”

“You look unwell. I fear the events of the past few days are wearing on you. Rest wife. Join me in my solar later.”

Sansa hated being dismissed by her husband. She hated when he made unilateral decisions. But today, she wouldn’t argue. She had slept miserably, plagued not by guilt but _fear_. She felt sick the entire time they stood outside Margaery’s bedchamber. She had been certain that at any moment the maesters would determine that Margaery had been poisoned, and after only a brief investigation Sansa would be charged with the crime.

It hadn’t happened that way, but it still might. Now she just had to have faith that there would not be a medical examination, or that if there was, no trace of Nightshade would be found.

_Or that if there is, no one will suspect me…_

When she took the vial from Tyrion, she knew she’d only use it if it became necessary to do so. She also knew she’d have to use it _right then and there_ … for if she left and came back, Margaery would no doubt be suspicious of anything Sansa gave her to eat or drink. But with Sansa coming only to inquire after Margaery’s health, the queen had no reason to suspect Sansa would have poison on her person.

Sansa had no intention of keeping this from Tywin forever, but now she realized that telling him would only make him complicit in what may soon be determined to be regicide.

Then again, Tywin was clever and influential – he may be able to ensure Margaery’s death was never investigated; or at least never ruled as murder.

Another part of her worried about how Tywin would react. On the one hand, he would be relieved that the person behind Sansa’s attack had been dealt with. On the other hand, he would no doubt be angry that Sansa took such irrevocable action without consulting him. She wouldn’t have, of course, had time not been of the essence. And it _had_ been. Margaery wasn’t wrong. Even the Hand’s wife couldn’t accuse the queen of attempted murder on hearsay alone. And doing so would only weaken the Crown’s relationship with Highgarden and the Reach. They could not chance that during winter.

When it became clear that accusing Margaery would also prompt Margaery to reveal her suspicions about Tywin’s role in Joffrey’s murder, the vial tucked into Sansa’s sleeve had screamed to her: _You know what you must do._ When she almost lost her nerve, the vial, then in her hand as she stood at the sideboard, spoke again – this time in a calmer tone: _It’s what you brought me here for. What’s one more death on your hands? And this one is someone who tried to kill you… who tried to break Tywin’s heart… who tried to leave Joelyn without a mother…_

It had then been easy, even satisfying, to pour the amber liquid into the chalice while behind her Margaery continued bragging about how clever and untouchable she was. Sansa despised arrogance, even if her family-by-law were all guilty of it to some degree. Harder than pouring poison into a queen and once-friend’s wine had been not gloating after Margaery drank it.

Sansa had resisted the temptation, of course, and had to settle for taking pleasure in the fact that her toast would certainly be answered for at least one of them: Margaery would not live to regret their “alliance”.

All that remained to be seen was whether Sansa would…

As she sat down on the end of her bed, trying to straighten the chaos of her mind, a movement near the window caught her eye. It seemed the window must be cracked, and a breeze had blown the curtains. She stood and walked over to close the window only to see it was already sealed tight.

When she turned back around in confusion, she was face to face with Amyra, pressing a finger to her lips.

“I mean you no harm, my lady,” Amyra whispered.

“How did you—”

“It matters not. I must speak to you without delay.”

“Your voice…”

Amyra nodded, “This is my true voice.”

Sansa shook her head, trying to place the voice which was vaguely familiar, “Who are you?”

“I am a friend of House Stark. I can get you and your daughter home if we leave at once. The bells will ring soon and there will be confusion in and around the city.”

“Did you have something to do with the attack on me?!”

“No, I swear it. I was simply in the right place at the right time.”

“Who are you?” Sansa repeated more firmly.

“I told you – a friend of House Stark. I will get you to Winterfell and Lord Manderly will protect you there. The Crown cannot siege Winterfell during winter. You will be safe there for months, more likely years, while you plan your next move.”

“This is madness. I have no desire to leave this city, even to return to my homeland. My family is here. My husband, my daughter, my goodsons, my loyal men.”

“All Lannisters, my lady.”

“Indeed, and all have been good to me. Protected me. Amyra, you are overstepping. What you are suggesting is treason – abandoning my marriage, my duties to the city, to the kingdoms… stealing away with the Lord Hand’s child.”

Amyra appeared to be growing frustrated, “What if I told you that if you leave this place, you will be reunited with your sister?”

“Arya?! You know where she is?”

“I do, my lady, but I cannot reveal it here.”

Sansa shook her head, “This could be a trap. And even if it is not a trap, what you offer is not what I seek. My life is here, Amyra.”

“Yes, because you’ve been forced to stay here. To be their hostage. But if you go to Winterfell, you will have your old life back, _and_ a new one. The north needs its lady. It needs a _Stark_.” Her eyes became pleading – the first time Sansa had seen such a look on the mysterious young woman.

“Amyra, I can tell you speak from the heart. But I will not leave.”

A small voice screamed at Sansa to consider it. That voice pointed out how much she would have jumped at this opportunity two years ago. It seemed the Gods were answering her prayers… just far too late. And upon having these realizations, she had another. That she truly did love her husband. That she loved Jaime and Tyrion, even Genna and Kevan, Sandor and Andre. She was surrounded by people she loved and who loved her back, people she would die for, people she would kill for.

_People who you **have** killed for. People who have killed for **you**. _

Amyra was staring at her, eye narrowed. Sansa shook her head, “Leaving as you suggest would only hurt the North. They are dependent on provisions sent from the Westerlands and Reach. If they harbor me, it will only hurt them. I would _not_ do that to my people. _Our people,_ Amyra. So if you wish to serve House Stark, I suggest you pledge yourself to my brother Jon Snow upon his return. If he is right, the realm will soon be at war against a foe the likes of which it hasn’t seen for millennia. Or I can speak to my husband about finding a place for you in the keep, perhaps in the kitchens. You must know I cannot have you in our own household.”

Amyra shook her head, looking resigned to Sansa’s objections, “Don’t go to that trouble, my lady. I’m not made for indoors; I’d just be underfoot.”

Sansa smiled, recalling her little sister with fondness that she had not felt at the time. She nodded, “Then perhaps you will go to where you know my sister to be and pledge yourself to her. To keep her safe. And if you do, perhaps you will tell her…” Sansa hated to show weakness to a virtual stranger, but tears welled in her eyes unbidden, “tell her that I am sorry about what happened at the Crossroads. Tell her I was wrong, and she was right. Tell her I haven’t forgotten about her, nor have I forgotten who I am... Tell her I’ve done things she would be proud of, even if I am not. Tell her I am safe here – that Lord Tywin is good to me, and that Sandor Clegane will never let harm come to me – from _anyone_. Tell her…”

Tears were now streaming down Sansa’s cheeks. She didn’t know why, but this strange young woman brought out Sansa’s sense of nostalgia and sentimentality, “Tell her I love her. Tell her to stay safe. Tell her about my daughter – Joelyn Arya Stark. Tell her I hope my daughter grows up to be more like her aunt than her mother. Or perhaps, a little like each of us.”

At the awed stare Amyra had fixed on her throughout her rant, Sansa finally chuckled, “I suppose I should write that down or else my sister will never hear it.”

Amyra shook her head slowly, her eyes glazed over, “She already knows, my lady.”

Sansa looked at her under a furrowed brow. Had Arya spoken to Amyra about Sansa? Or was Amyra making a general statement about the bond between sisters? (Which, incidentally, hadn’t existed for the Stark sisters until after they were separated – and even now Sansa wasn’t sure that Arya reciprocated her own feelings).

“You should watch me leave, my lady, so you know of the secret tunnels leading to your room.” Amyra turned and strutted toward the hearth wall as Sansa watched, mouth agape.

“If you ever need me, my lady, I’ll be around. For a little while, anyway.” With that, she pulled on a sconce and slowly opened a section of wall that was, in actuality, a door. She disappeared and pulled it shut behind her without a backwards glance.

As if her poor brain needed more matters to consider, Sansa wondered who else knew of this tunnel that led to her bedchamber. She wondered if she should tell Tywin, but that would mean revealing Amyra’s visit. Tywin had said he didn’t trust the girl, and this would only confirm his suspicion. He would believe it had all been an elaborate trap. That Amyra meant to lead Sansa away from the city and either kill her or kidnap her. Sansa knew her actual intentions were pure. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew, and Sansa had long ago learned to trust her instincts, as for too long they were her only counsel.

She also didn’t know what to make of Amyra’s claim that Arya was alive. Was Arya close? Perhaps camped just outside the city, waiting for Sansa and Amyra?

It was painful to think she was turning down an opportunity to be reunited with her sister, but Sansa knew it would take time for Arya to trust the Lannisters. Perhaps she never would. But the mere fact that Tywin let Jon leave the capital (on a dragon!) should show he didn’t view all Starks as enemies or pawns. Did Arya know this? Sansa hoped Amyra would convey all the news from the capital to Arya, and that Arya was smart enough to know what it all meant.

For now, Sansa would have to settle for the comfort it gave her to know Arya was alive and well. Three of the six Stark children were alive and well. Years ago, learning that half her siblings would perish would have devastated Sansa. Shamefully, learning that the three that would survive would include Arya and Jon would have disappointed her. But today, to know half of Ned Stark’s children (well, two children and one nephew) were alive… it felt like a blessing greater than Sansa deserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) Hope this was satisfying for everyone. I suspect it was, based on your passionate comments last night! (THANKS AGAIN)
> 
> A few readers commented that they thought or hoped the wine was poisoned, but allow me to give a shout-out to kristiwildangel03 for being the first to post that theory. Ding ding ding! Sorry I don't have a prize to give you!
> 
> Coming up - Tywin deals with the fallout of Margaery's death. Sansa works carefully to avoid suspicion, but there are some perceptive folks in KL.


	61. Fear and Worship

**Sansa**

“It’s all my fault, Sansa.”

Sansa smoothed back the young king’s hair from where she hovered over him. _Like a meddlesome mother_ – she thought of Margaery’s accusation. It was hard to believe Tommen was only a few years younger than her. At times like these she felt like she’d lived a hundred lifetimes while he was still in his first.

“Hush, Tommen. You are upset.”

He shook his head, “It was too soon for her to carry a child. After losing her grandmother, falling ill herself… I shouldn’t have…”

“ _No_ , Tommen. The maesters would have told you if she wasn’t fit to carry a child. This is _not_ on you; do you understand?”

He seemed to be hearing little of what she said. “She was so adamant about giving me heirs. I…” Tommen blushed, “I should have insisted we wait.”

Sansa could read between the lines and instantly understood the power dynamic between Margaery and Tommen. Older, savvier Margaery Tyrell and young Tommen – a naïve mind paired with a teenage boy’s cock.

“Tommen listen to me. Many, perfectly healthy women miscarry. Most recover, some don’t. Many women were afflicted with the plague and made a full recovery, while others did not. Sometimes - and I know it’s hard – but sometimes, it’s not worth trying to make sense of it. We have to trust in the Gods. They know things we don’t.”

Sansa ignored the uncomfortable fact that, in this case, it wasn’t the Gods’ work, but hers. She instead focused on trying to cheer poor Tommen up, “Now, I know you are sad, but you must not blame—”

“No, Sansa, that’s just it! I’m not sad! I’m _scared!”_

She was taken aback, “Tommen… what do you mean?”

The young man stood, looking very much like Jaime in that moment as he began to pace his spacious rooms with anxious energy.

“I mean I’m scared! I’m scared about who Grandfather will match me with now. I’m scared about… about _everything!_ Margaery was the smart one. She’s the one who understood things – the kinds of things you and Grandfather and Uncle Tyrion understand. She was going to help with everything once it is time for me to rule on my own.”

“Tommen, you already rule on your own. You have no regent.”

Tommen rolled his eyes in frustration – a rare expression of displeasure from the good-natured boy. “I may not have a regent, but you and Grandfather, the Small Council – you’re the ones making all the important decisions. You’re the ones who know what to do.”

“Tommen, you are learning—”

“No! It’s not the same, Sansa. Who did _you_ learn from? Who did Grandfather learn from? Grandfather was younger than I am when he had to take over his father’s role as Warden of the West, with no one around to guide him.” He shook his head, “No – the truth is, you didn’t have to _learn,_ because ruling comes naturally to you. Well it doesn’t come naturally to me! Margaery was going to help with all that, and now she can’t! Margaery told me not to fear; that I was ready to rule on my own and that she would help. She had so much faith in me, Sansa! She told me a couple months ago that it was time for Grandfather to return to the West so that I could spread my wings. And you want to know the truth? When she said that, I didn’t feel proud. I didn’t feel eager to prove her right. I felt _scared.”_ Tommen finally stopped pacing and collapsed back into his chair, his cheeks ruddy and his breaths shallow.

“Tommen, it is perfectly normal to be worried about how well you will do. In fact, it shows that you care, which is the most important thing a king can do.”

“It’s not,” Tommen shook his head, “And I care because I don’t want to disappoint Grandfather. I care because I want Mother to look down on me from the Heavens and be proud of me. I want to be a king my family can be proud of, but I don’t know how. None of this gives me any joy, Sansa. I don’t enjoy it and I am not good at it.”

Sansa reflected on his words. She had been raised by parents who put duty above personal happiness. She’d never been taught to expect joy, or at least she was taught that she would find joy only in doing her duty. In giving her husband sons, first and foremost. In raising her children to be obedient, secondly. In helping run her husband’s household, thirdly. The part of her that was Catelyn Stark’s child wanted to scold Tommen for not finding joy in his duty, or for expecting joy, to begin with. The part of her that was influenced by Tywin Lannister was tempted to do the same.

But the part of her that was Sansa knew it was unfair to judge Tommen. She herself had found joy in unlikely places. In her Lannister husband. In her Lannister child. In her work with the poor. In her contributions to the Small Council. In her mentoring of Tommen. In her protection of the city.

Most of these were not sources of fulfillment she’d been raised to expect, yet she was fulfilled all the same. But she knew that if she didn’t have these duties, if all Tywin allowed of her was a broodmare, if she was forced to do something every day which gave her no joy, she would have shriveled up and died. So although she couldn’t empathize with Tommen’s specific woes, she could sympathize with them.

“Tommen, have you told your grandfather how you feel?” she asked carefully.

Tommen glared at her, “Sansa, have you gone mad?” The slight twitch of his lips was a good sign. He was able to maintain some humor during this awful period.

She didn’t respond and Tommen sighed, “I never told him because I never felt this strongly. I had hoped either you and Grandfather or Uncle Tyrion would stay here permanently. Perhaps Ser Davos, too. He dines with Shireen and I, and he is a very wise man. But even if I was wrong, I’d still have Margaery. But now…”

Sansa nodded. Of course, Tommen didn’t know that Margaery had no intention of _helping_ him, and every intention of ruling the realm _through_ him. But it would do no good to tell him that now.

“Perhaps I can speak to your grandfather. I will let him know of your concerns. Would you like that?”

Tommen nodded but his mind seemed to be elsewhere. Sure enough, he let out another sigh, “I think I’m going to the Hells when I die, Sansa.”

“What?! Tommen, you are the kindest person I know! How can you say such a thing?”

“I wasn’t sad when Joffrey died, only worried about what it meant for me. That I would need to be King. Sometimes I have even wished he was still alive, knowing how horrible he was, so that I wouldn’t have to rule. And now it has repeated all over again. I _did_ care for Margaery – I _swear_ I did. She was my… friend. She was so sweet to me. But when I saw her… when I saw her _body_ my first thought wasn’t despair. It was _fear_ ,” he shook his head despondently.

Sansa swallowed dryly. Apparently, there was a lot of fear going around. Sansa felt fear in place of guilt. Tommen felt fear in place of grief. Only Tommen was berating himself, though. Sansa wasn’t. Sansa, who felt like a monster for rejoicing in Cersei’s death – a death that Sansa didn’t even cause – couldn’t summon a speck of remorse for causing Margaery’s death. When had this change in her occurred?

But now wasn’t the time to ponder it. She’d come this morning to visit Tommen and offer him comfort, and that must still be her priority.

“Tommen, speak to the Gods. They will understand. Spend time thinking about Margaery – about what a… wonderful woman she was. Honor her in your memory. Honor her by continuing to maintain strong relations with her homeland. Honor her by being the best man you can be. That is how you atone…” Sansa sighed deeply, “And if all that doesn’t work, then remember: if you’re going to the Hells, then so am I. So are your uncles. So is your grandfather.” Sansa smiled, “So you’ll be in good company.”

Sansa left Tommen’s chambers after giving the king a hug. She nodded knowingly at Jaime as she exited. Jaime, she suspected, would be stationed in the corridor, if not in Tommen’s rooms, day and night. His concern for the boy was palpable, and not just because he was Kingsguard. At some point in the past months he had found his paternal instinct. He went from seemingly awkward and uncomfortable when in Tommen’s presence to apparently enjoying the young king’s company and taking pride in his contribution to Tommen’s continued development.

Sansa was making her way back to Tywin’s solar when Varys intercepted her.

The eunuch dipped his head, “My lady, I had hoped for a few moments of your time.”

“Certainly, Lord Varys. Would you care to join me in our sitting room? I was heading back to the Tower, anyway.”

“Thank you, Lady Sansa, but perhaps a stroll through the gardens would be agreeable to you? I fear your house words have never been truer: _winter is coming_ ; so we should enjoy the weather as long as possible, don’t you agree?”

Sansa knew there was more to his request than enjoying a relatively mild autumn day. She nodded and took Lord Varys’ offered arm. The flesh of his forearm was supple under his satin jacket, a noticeable contrast to the hard musculature of Tywin, Sandor, Andre, and Jaime – men whose forearms she knew quite intimately. Sansa supposed the extent of Varys’ physical activity was putting quill to parchment or lifting a goblet of wine.

Varys chatted about inconsequential matters as they walked toward the gardens and thank goodness, because Sansa’s mind was too busy to carry the conversation.

When finally they were safe in the privacy of the gardens, Varys took a breath, “Lady Sansa, your lord husband tasked me with making inquiries within the royal household; Queen Margaery’s personal servants and maids, in particular.”

“I am aware, my lord.”

“I wished to update you on some of the things I’ve heard.”

Sansa’s heart began to race, “You’ve heard things that concern you?”

His eyes narrowed wistfully as he stared straight ahead, “In a sense… though not in the way I expected.”

“Please, Lord Varys, proceed.”

“Our dear late Margaery’s handmaiden Jeyne said… eh, are you familiar with Jeyne?”

Sansa nodded, “I have met the young woman. She is cousin to Joelyn’s wetnurse, Shira. She appears to be a fine young lady.”

“Indeed,” Varys nodded one time, with a well-groomed eyebrow raised, “Only Jeyne, who was admittedly very upset about her lady’s death, confessed something that I found rather alarming.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. When I questioned her about Queen Margaery’s recent behavior and emotional state, Jeyne became quite distraught. It seems the young woman was feeling rather guilty about something. I learned that Margaery had asked Jeyne to ask Shira to spy on you and your lord husband. Though _spy_ is perhaps too strong a word. She had asked Shira to report on what she heard and saw, though the woman wasn’t instructed to go out of her way to – shall we say – eavesdrop on your conversations.”

Fear quickly turned to rage. Sansa felt like a fool. She knew Jeyne and Shira were cousins, but it never occurred to her to distrust Shira. She was quite happy with the wetnurse, and little Jo was obviously comfortable with the woman. If anything, Sansa had occasionally benefited from Shira passing along rumors that were shared to her by Jeyne. If every servant who partook in gossip was dismissed, there would be no servants; the nobles would be drawing their own baths, emptying their own chamber pots, washing their own clothes, and preparing their own meals. Not to mention a dozen or so other things that the average lord or lady would die of shame before attempting.

“This is indeed disturbing, Lord Varys. I thank you for bringing it to my attention. It would appear there is at least one servant in our household that needs to be dismissed.”

“Indeed, however, there was more that I learned from young Jeyne…”

Rage morphed back to fear, “Go on.”

“Apparently, there wasn’t anything particularly salacious in whatever Shira reported to Jeyne, so Margaery asked Jeyne, who asked Shira, to concoct a tale, if you will. Apparently, Jeyne and Shira were instructed to say that you and your goodson – Ser Jaime, that is – had an adulterous relationship. I’m not sure _when_ this would occur, or even _if_ it would occur. Jeyne seemed to think it was something of a… _contingency_ plan _.”_

Sansa widened her eyes even though the news was no surprise to her, “Why would she… a contingency in case of what?”

Lord Varys’ shoulders lifted slightly, “I do not know. Perhaps it was simply a precaution in the event our late queen had some disagreement with her family-by-law. The truth likely died with Lady Margaery. Nonetheless, I thought you deserved to know. I am sorry if I have shattered the image of friendship you had with Lady Margaery, but I firmly believe that the _truth_ is more valuable than almost anything else.”

“I agree, Lord Varys. You have my gratitude.”

Sansa hoped he would end it there.

She would not be so lucky.

Varys turned to face her, stopping both of them from their leisurely stroll, “I can only imagine how such an accusation would injure your house and the realm, should it ever see the light of day. While you mourn the loss of your friend, perhaps you can take comfort in knowing that at least _one_ good thing came from it.”

Sansa was powerless to respond, and glad that Varys gave her no opportunity to try. The eunuch bowed slightly and scurried out of the gardens with short yet graceful strides. Sansa turned to look at Sandor. He and the other guards kept their distance, and likely heard none of Varys’ words. Sansa almost wished he had, though no doubt Sandor would not understand their full magnitude.

Sansa now knew what Tyrion felt like all those moons ago when Sansa subtly let him know that she knew he had killed Cersei and thanked him for it. Lord Varys, she suspected, had just done the same. Whether he was certain or merely suspicious, she did not know; but without saying anything incriminating, or that any eavesdropper would read dubious meaning into, he let Sansa know that he knew, that he wanted her to know that he knew, and that he approved…

**Tywin**

“You’re late,” Tywin spoke without lifting his eyes from his desk.

Sansa sighed, “Tommen was quite troubled.”

“He lost a wife and an heir; that is to be expected.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

Tywin raised his eyes, “Oh?”

“We’ll talk about it, then. I’m sure we have more pressing matters to attend.”

“Indeed. We need to choose our next queen, and there is still the matter of the assassination attempt on your life. Or had you forgotten that someone wants you dead?” Tywin knew she didn’t deserve his annoyance, but it was the only sentiment he had to offer. All he had wanted to do was focus on finding and eliminating the person or persons responsible for the attempt on Sansa’s life. Then Margaery Tyrell had to die. Yet another woman who didn’t deserve his scorn, but her death was a massive inconvenience. There were few eligible maidens in the realm that Tywin trusted to be the next queen. He knew too well how wily women could be, particularly those that craved power. Tommen may prove to be a just king, but he would never be a feared man. His next wife couldn’t be someone with her own agenda, someone who would manipulate Tommen to do her bidding, potentially undermining House Lannister and the peace Tywin had labored so tirelessly to achieve.

Sansa’s cheeks were pink, “Let’s focus on the first matter you mentioned. The second will keep.”

“Will it?” Tywin arched a brow. “I’m glad you’re so cavalier with your life,” he added, quite sarcastically.

Sansa sighed, “I will not be leaving the keep.”

“So you say… I also told you not to leave this Tower, yet you’ve been doing quite a lot of that, haven’t you?”

Sansa’s eyes went to the ceiling. He knew the expression to mean she was biting her tongue. Ordinarily he preferred when she kept her emotions under control, but today, for some reason, he wanted her to lash out. He wanted her frustration, her judgment.

But she held firm.

“Fine,” he relented. “Lord Mace and I have decided the funeral shall take place a sennight from yesterday.”

Sansa picked at the lace hem of her sleeve, “Does that mean there will be no medical examination?”

Tywin narrowed his eyes, “Lord Mace does not wish to defile her remains. He agrees with the maesters’ theory that her recent illness weakened her heart, and the subsequent emotional and physical trauma were more strain than her heart could handle. Moreover, the only people who visited her the day of her death, and thus would be in a position to _assist_ her journey to the grave, were her cousins, Lord Mace, Ser Loras, and you. And her handmaiden of course, but the girl was quite loyal to her lady, and is quite disturbed by her passing.”

“I see,” Sansa nodded. “What has Lord Mace said about Tommen’s… _prospects_?”

“Nothing. The man is overcome with grief. Obviously, we need to find some way to appease the Tyrells, to keep ourselves in their good graces, but he has no other daughters, and even he knows any of his nieces would be a downgrade.”

Sansa nodded again, and Tywin studied her. Her eyes were uncharacteristically evasive. Not holding his for longer than a few seconds at a time.

He leaned back slightly, “You didn’t ask me if I agree with Lord Mace’s decision.”

A crease formed between Sansa’s brows, “Which decision?”

“To not conduct a medical examination.”

“Oh. Well, do you?”

Tywin crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture he would never show to anyone but his wife and perhaps his sons. “The Hand’s wife – the king’s grandmother – is attacked, along with the queen’s brother. Two days later the queen dies, seemingly of natural causes. A fool might believe the two incidents are unrelated.”

Sansa nodded slowly, “But you’re no fool…”

Tywin narrowed his eyes, “And neither are you, unless it’s a recent development. You even suggested it might be connected to your attack the moment the maesters’ suggested examining her remains to look for traces of poison.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, and held them so for several moments, “Are we safe from prying eyes and ears here?”

Tywin had a strong suspicion he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear, and while generally he felt his privacy was assured in his personal solar, he also knew better than to speak explicitly of anything that could be damaging. Of course, he’d occasionally forget his own rule in a moment when emotion overcame his better judgment, but so far none of those moments had come back to haunt him, so he nodded slowly.

Even with his assurance, he moved to take the seat next to Sansa, so she wouldn’t have to project her voice to cover the six or so feet between them when he sat at his desk.

The message was received. Sansa leaned close enough so that she could speak at a whisper, though stared at Tywin’s once again crossed arms rather than meeting his eyes. She took a deep breath, “The flower was in league with the birds.”

Tywin felt his eyes widen but refrained from asking any of the dozen questions that flew to his mind. Sure enough, Sansa continued, “She confessed it… Bragged about it, truly.”

“Why?” Tywin spit.

“You could say I _provoked_ a reaction. After disarming her with affability and ignorance.”

Tywin shook his head as rage swelled within him. He bit it back, “Why did you not tell me immediately?”

Sansa winced, “She was… _prepared_ for that possibility. She had knowledge – and the potential to obtain proof – of a certain crime that was committed, some time ago…” Sansa lifted her eyes to look at him meaningfully, “one that involved her grandmother.”

Tywin leaned back. He knew precisely what Sansa was alluding to: his involvement in Joffrey’s death.

Sansa let the realization soak in for long moments before speaking again, “She also had conspired with one of her servants to fabricate an accusation of wrongdoing… of an _adulterous_ nature. That she could use if need be.”

Tywin’s head was spinning, and the desire to stand and pace the room was difficult to resist, “Use against _whom?”_

Sansa’s eyes squeezed shut again, “A lady who has earned the respect of the people… and a man who has recovered some of his lost honor.” She shook her head without opening her eyes, “I swear, there was no truth in—”

“I know,” he ground out. He’d made the mistake of questioning his wife’s loyalty, along with his son’s, once before. He would not make that mistake again.

“Why would she do any of these things? The allegation of crime – a crime which benefited _her_ at the time; the false adultery accusation; not to mention the… partnership with the birds?”

Sansa sighed again, “As for the first two, they were… _insurance_ … accusations only meant to see light if her demands were not met. As for—”

“What demands?”

“That two people – a man and his wife – leave the city at once.”

Tywin turned that fact over in his mind, but he was sharp enough to quickly realize Margaery’s motive – in the action she took and the actions she _would_ have taken. “Two people who have what she wanted,” he half-stated, half-asked.

Sansa nodded, “The birds were meant to deal with one of those people. The other would… not take that well. Would perhaps do something rash. Or would perhaps leave the city.”

Tywin nodded. He knew there were details that their cryptic communication did not permit to be conveyed. He was dying to learn them, but that would have to come later. Now, there were more pressing questions to ask, “The flower didn’t get an opportunity to accomplish her mission…” He let his words linger in the air, which was thick with nervous tension; some hers, some his.

“No… she didn’t.”

Tywin shuddered at the heaviness those four words held. It wasn’t what he wanted for her, his wife. Months after Sansa vanquished the Iron Born to their watery graves, Tywin saw the weight it had put on her – an anchor threatening to drag her down to the same shadowy depths. But he also knew that the weight of dealing death wasn’t proportionate to the number of lives taken. He’d seen scores of men killed at his orders, dozens if not hundreds killed by his own blade. But that was _battle._ That was _war._ A single death, delivered personally, was an entirely different matter.

But rather than offering words of comfort, he let his curiosity prevail, “How?”

Sansa took a deep breath in and out before answering, “Right then and there. Wine.”

“Wine?”

Sansa nodded.

“And how was this wine… procured?”

His wife shifted in her seat, putting distance between herself and her husband, “It had been meant for another, some time ago. But it hadn’t been… put to use.”

 _Euron Greyjoy._ Tywin couldn’t imagine Sansa obtaining poison for anyone but him. Likely, before she and Tyrion devised the plan that was ultimately put into motion, she had thought the best she could do was kill the Iron Born leader. Taking the head off the kraken would surely not have stopped its tentacles from seeking to strangle out all life around them, but it would be _something_ , at least. Each commander on a battlefield is worth a hundred soldiers, at least.

She spoke again, still in a whisper, “I know things are… _messy_ now. But… there wasn’t another option. Certainly none that wouldn’t have been just as messy, if not more so.”

Tywin nodded. He understood better than anyone what accusing the queen of attempted murder would mean. Not because she was the queen, but because she was a Tyrell. Even if there was proof to be found of Margaery’s involvement, Lord Mace would not allow his daughter to be tried for such a crime. At best, he would have found a way to spirit his daughter and sons out of the city and hunker down in Highgarden, severing all ties with the Crown and House Lannister, which now also included the aid sent to the Riverlands and the North. The Tyrells had enough men in the capital to do it, and Tywin’s only way to stop them would be to attack, which would lead to war.

At worst, Lord Mace or Lord Willas would raise their banners and wage a war for Margaery’s life – and for the throne while they were at it. They had the gold and the armies, and there was a good chance that Dorne would answer their call to arms for the chance to finally avenge Houses Baratheon and Lannister for the deaths of Elia Martell and her babes. With winter bearing down, the North would not be able to come to the aid of the Crown. Soon, neither the Riverlands nor Vale would be able to; not that the latter would be so inclined. It would leave the Lannister force alone against the Reach and Dorne. The men who had returned to the Stormlands would not be eager for war, but with their lands in the path of said war, they likely wouldn’t have a choice. Would they choose to support King Tommen, who had recently shown them mercy and generosity? Perhaps. Or perhaps they would remember what Renly and Stannis Baratheon died for – the firm belief that Cersei’s children were _not_ in line for the throne.

And certainly _that_ rumor would resurface and blaze like wildfire across the continent. Perhaps Margaery would claim to have heard an admission from Tommen’s own mouth as to who his true father was. The Tyrells and their allies would fight for the throne using not just swords but also words. They’d accuse Tywin of kinslaying. They’d claim Tommen was a Lannister bastard, not a Baratheon heir. They’d remind the realm why Jaime was called Kingslayer. They might even claim Joelyn was not Tywin’s daughter but his _granddaughter –_ yet another Lannister bastard – in attempt to chip away at the legacy of House Lannister.

Tywin’s mind wandered even further – wondering whether the war for the throne would pit the dragon riders against each other. Though he’d doubted Tyrion’s loyalty in the past, Tywin now felt assured that his youngest son would fight and die for House Lannister. But would Daenerys only see an opportunity to advance her position? By pledging herself and her large dragon to House Tyrell, surely she could earn herself a chance at the throne – to rule beside whichever Tyrell claimed it. At minimum, she would be promised a position of power – a seat at the Small Council, or instatement as the Lady of Dragonstone. Of course, only if they were successful, but that wasn’t such a big ‘if’. Even Tywin’s army, which was without equal, couldn’t defend both the Westerlands and Crownlands simultaneously, not from the Tyrells and Dorne. Not from the Tyrells and Dorne and the Stormlands. Not from the Tyrells and Dorne and the Stormlands and a dragon, even if he had two dragons at his disposal.

The prospect was frightening, yet it had been avoided thanks to his clever and quick-thinking wife. His wife who, so far as he could glean, suspected Margaery Tyrell had been behind the Sparrows’ attack and had figured out a way to draw a confession from the young queen and then poison her, all in one sitting, and all without leaving a shred of evidence, or giving anyone a reason to suspect her.

Even without knowing the details, he knew it had been _brilliant_. Perfect. Up until today, Tywin thought his ability to eliminate Joffrey and Petyr Baelish in one swipe of the paw had been the pinnacle of cunning. The belief was accompanied by no small amount of pride. But now? Now he was certain he was looking at a woman who could outmatch even him in the great game of cyvasse that was life. And unlike most men, it didn’t damage his precious ego. He didn’t want to bash in her cunning, ruthless brain for taking such action without his knowledge. He wanted to scream from the rooftops and send a raven to every corner of Westeros to proclaim his wife as the most fierce and powerful woman who ever lived. Who _would_ ever live.

Of course, he'd have to settle for telling just her. He turned to her and was ready to do just that when she beat him to it, her eyes as cold and hard as ice, “I don’t regret it. I’m not sorry. In fact, I’ve never felt more at peace with a decision – no matter the challenges that lay ahead.”

He knew her words were meant to preempt what she thought was a scolding from him, but if she could only read his mind, she’d know that everything she’d done in the past two days made him lust for her like never before. And the words she just spoke – if she repeated them two more times, he might spill in his smallclothes like a greenboy having a wet dream.

He grabbed her face in both hands and kissed her – too brutally, but it wasn’t in him to be gentle right now. He wasted not a moment in invading her mouth with his tongue. He wanted to pour himself into her. She was already a force to be reckoned with, but if he could somehow suffuse his own strength, wisdom, and intelligence into her, she’d be unstoppable, more God than mortal. She’d be able to command men to do her bidding with only a look. She’d be able to wipe out entire cities with a snap of her fingers. No dragon’s breath or Night King’s icy blade could harm her; no dark magic could possess her. The Seven would be instantly replaced by a single Goddess who comprised all their powers. The beauty of the Maiden, the wisdom of the Crone, the strength of the Warrior. She would build entire worlds, like the Smith. Her judgment alone would condemn, like the Father. Her forgiveness alone would acquit, like the Mother. And when it pleased her, when it was necessary to protect her family, she would deliver death with efficiency even the Stranger would envy.

Somehow, despite his half-mad musings, he had navigated them to his desk, hiked up her skirts, and kneeled before his Goddess. Or had she steered him? He couldn’t be bothered to care as he ripped at the laces of her smallclothes and feasted on her essence. Sweet and yet musky, clean and yet heady, her perfect little cunt was an amalgam of so many things, just like the woman it belonged to.

Anyone watching would have seen a lion devouring his prey, but to Tywin this was an act of worship; a way of expressing things that words would fail to convey. This was his approval of her decision, the one she made without consulting him. This was his appreciation for the risk she took to protect all they had built. This was his relief that she’d survived a brutal attack and eliminated the person behind it. This was his happiness to be able to call her his wife. This was his promise to never make her regret it. This was his prayer that he’d never have to live one day in this world without Sansa by his side.

After she screamed his name loud enough for the entire Tower to hear he sunk into her but continued in the same style of rough and raw lovemaking. Some would say lions and wolves got along like cats and dogs. Those people were fools. This lion and this wolf completed each other such that the whole was greater than the sum of its parts. He felt powerful like never before. The surge he felt whenever the _Rains of Castamere_ was played was nothing compared to this.

Together, there was nothing that could hurt them. He wouldn’t sit back and relax, no. He’d still plan and scheme, he’d still play the game. He’d still make sure his coffers were full and his army at the ready. He’d always strive to be one step ahead of any who might be conspiring against his house. But so long as they each endeavored to protect their family, to protect each other, to steer the realm into prosperity, no one could challenge them. It made him feel invincible as he pumped into his wife, who’d already clamped down on his cock as she found her pleasure a second time. Pleasure suffused him, too, and he spilled into her with an ethereal knowledge that they were creating life again. A little creature that would grow to be just as formidable as its mother and father. The emotion and physical bliss had a too-loud moan pouring from his lips, but it mattered not. Anyone with ears in this Tower already knew what was transpiring behind the Hand’s closed door, and he couldn’t have cared less. _Let them hear…_

_Hear me roar._

_Hear me howl._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A general comment about the Sansa in my fic... she is not perfect. She is clever and wily, she loves deeply, but she most definitely has a dark side, and she's starting to embrace it. From the beginning of the fic I've tried to build toward Sansa and Tywin becoming the same person. She has and will continue to adopt his ruthless and conniving ways, and he will adopt some of her warmth and compassion. Resulting in a Tywin that is less cruel than the one we know from the ASOIAF books and a Sansa that is much less naïve and soft than the one in the books. This story has never been about Sansa turning the Great Lion into a kitten, which many other TySan fics attempt to do. If that's your cup of tea, awesome, but it isn't mine.
> 
> Oh, and while I don't think my Sansa is perfect, Tywin definitely does. He's a man that needs a woman to love with all his heart, which is why, rightly or wrongly, I blame Joanna's death for all the despicable shit the man has done. He's a dangerous man when he is adrift.
> 
> Not sure why I felt compelled to say all that, but I did, so I did. :) As always, thanks for your continued comments which are so very motivating!! Though SanSan is the ship I will go down with, I adore TySan and love chatting with other TySan shippers.


	62. Schemes and Reflections

**Tywin**

Eliminating Margaery had indeed made things messy, but it was a mess Tywin could handle, unlike the alternative. And he _had_ considered all the alternatives – all the actions they could have taken after Sansa suspected that Margaery was in league with the Sparrows. None of them ended well, and none of them was without significant risk.

He and Sansa had spoken more about what Margaery confessed before Sansa slipped poison into her wine. They laid in bed the prior night and Sansa whispered it all to him while stroking the fine hair on his chest, while he stroked the fiery mane on her head. _A pair of lions grooming each other_ , he thought back with amusement.

Margaery all but admitted that her brother Loras had been her intermediary, and that the man who had been captured and later interrogated had been the leader of the assassin’s guild. Tywin found the former credible, the latter less so. It troubled Tywin to think that the leader of the group might still be alive. Would he feel some debt was posthumously owed to Margaery Tyrell? Or would he feel his men had done their job, and it wasn’t their fault that the queen’s own brother, Garlan Tyrell, had thwarted them?

Thus, of all the moves Tywin would make in the coming days and weeks, this might be the most critical…

He didn’t summon Ser Loras to his solar; he wanted to catch the young man unawares. So instead, he found him in the White Sword Tower. Excused from his duties during his mourning period, Tywin imagined Ser Loras would be quite idle at the moment.

“Lord Hand,” Loras’ eyes widened briefly when they fell on his unexpected guests, “Lord Varys.”

Varys tipped his head in courteous greeting. Tywin didn’t bother.

The young knight appeared to have been crying quite recently. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed and his nose looked swollen.

“I…” the boy stuttered, “I do not have refreshments to offer,” he spoke as he opened the door wider and ushered his visitors inside his humble quarters.

“Sit,” Tywin jerked his head toward one of two chairs against the window wall. Tywin took the other so that he wouldn’t be towering over the Tyrell. He wanted the boy intimidated, not scared witless. Varys stood, hands laced in front of him casually, a few steps to Tywin’s right.

Loras’ eyes darted between the two men, “May I ask the reason for your visit, my lords?”

Varys tipped his chin again, “You know that inquiries have been made within your late sister’s household – a formality, to rule out foul play.”

Loras nodded shakily.

“Well, we have indeed ruled out foul play in her death, but something _foul_ was certainly taking place…”

Loras’ eyes were as big as saucers, “That is troubling, my lords. May I inquire as to the nature of this… occurrence?”

Tywin snorted lightly. The boy was a good liar, much like his sister had been, but less practiced in schooling his features. Tywin knew this well enough from the way Ser Loras used to glare at Joffrey, not bothering to hide the fact that he wanted to slice the king in half with his sword. Since Tywin had the same temptation at the time, he never made issue of it.

Tywin took the mantle, “Some of the servants admitted to being told rather alarming things by your sister. Of course, none of it was explicit enough for them to piece together the truth – that is, until _after_ the attack on my wife.”

Loras’ cheeks flushed. It was as much confirmation as Tywin needed, but he pressed on, “I will not bore you with the minutia, but the story we’ve amassed from the various testimonies is that your sister had plotted to have my wife assassinated. Why, I do not know, though I have my theories.”

Loras shook his head vehemently, “No – whatever you’ve been told, Lord Hand, it is untrue!”

“I might be inclined to believe you, Ser Loras, if it weren’t that _other_ reports have lent credibility to what might otherwise be written off as _gossip._ ”

“Other reports?” the boy’s eyes betrayed panic.

Tywin nodded curtly, “The Sparrow that I interrogated – the man was tougher than he looked. He stood up to hours of bodily abuse, but ultimately relented and gave me what I was after. He said the person who hired him and his men to kill my wife was a _flower._ Believing he had given me a name simply to end his own suffering, I was disinclined to believe him. The man said no more, and until we capture another of the bastards, we have only his admission to go by. But it seems _awfully_ coincidental that his statement aligns with what Lord Varys has heard from Queen Margaery’s servants…”

Loras shook his head, “Margaery would never harm Sansa. She loves… she _loved_ Sansa… like a sister.”

“Did she? Sansa told me how Margaery spoke to her when she visited her after her miscarriage. There was nothing very _sisterly_ about it.”

“Margaery was not in her right mind! She was distraught. Garlan was clinging to life; she’d just lost the future prince or princess… What she said in that moment should have no bearing on your judgment!” Tears stained the young man’s eyes, but Tywin knew desperation when he saw it.

“Ser Loras, I have no desire to tarnish your sister’s reputation by posthumously accusing her of a crime. Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but your family and mine are quite interdependent. But I must know if the culprit is still a threat to my wife’s life. Surely you understand that. Lady Sansa doesn’t deserve to spend the rest of her days looking over her shoulder. She doesn’t deserve to become a prisoner in her own home, even if it’s for her own safety.”

Loras’s lips folded over his teeth and he ground them together so tightly Tywin was certain that blood was going to seep out. But the boy said nothing.

“Fine,” Tywin stood and straightened his doublet. “I was hoping to reason to you, man to man. But since you refuse to cooperate, I have no choice but to bring this to the Small Council and the King. Based on the Sparrow’s confession and the testimony of your sister’s maids, there is enough evidence to merit a formal investigation into House Tyrell. Obviously, Margaery didn’t act alone; she had been bedridden for weeks. I’m disinclined to believe that your brother Garlan was complicit, or else why would he have taken three arrows to protect my wife? That means your father, yourself, or one of your cousins was involved.”

Loras flew out of his seat, “That is a lie! You have no proof!”

Varys arched a brow, “Is it also a lie that your sister had her handmaiden’s cousin spy on the Hand’s wife? That she concocted a story about an indecent affair between Lady Sansa and Ser Jaime and coached the women to support her story? I’m curious what that was about, Ser Loras? If Margaery intended to kill Sansa, why slander the woman, to boot?”

Loras shook his head, “I know nothing about this. Someone clearly has gotten to these women – and to any other servants you’ve questioned. Perhaps they’ve been paid or threatened to go along with this story. Someone obviously means to hurt House Tyrell… _and_ House Lannister! To pit us against one another. We should be working together to find that party rather than accusing one another!”

Tywin had to give the boy credit; he wasn’t going down without a fight. His words would have been quite compelling if Tywin didn’t already know the truth from Sansa’s own mouth, who heard it from Margaery’s own mouth.

“And the Sparrow who identified a “flower” as being behind the murder plot?” Tywin asked.

“Perhaps… they’re in on it,” Loras spoke with less conviction.

Tywin nodded, “Very well, Ser Loras. I will consider this possibility as we continue our investigation. But know this – the opportunity for mercy is _now –_ an opportunity that will expire the moment I walk out this door. Right now my belief is that Margaery alone wanted my wife dead. In hindsight, King Tommen has innocently mentioned a certain level of, shall we say, jealousy? That Margaery was envious of my wife’s stature in the capital and the love that the people showered on her. I do not see any reason why any other member of the Tyrell family would want Lady Sansa dead. Your late grandmother wanted her married to Willas, as did your father. Your father would sooner kill _me_ , and hope Sansa fell into his lap, than he would kill Sansa… So. _again_ , I believe Margaery was alone in possessing the motive to kill Sansa – if indeed it was her doing. But she couldn’t have been alone in _executing_ that attempt. _Someone_ had to act as intermediary between Margaery and the Sparrows. That someone, if convicted, would be executed for attempted murder. However, if that someone were to confess… to _cooperate_ … they would be shown leniency. Because my desire for vengeance against those who conspired to kill my wife is outweighed by my desire to _protect_ my wife going forward. And I cannot do that without knowing the truth.”

Tywin glanced at Varys, giving Loras some time to ponder his options. When the knight appeared to have no desire to speak, Tywin sighed and headed for the door, with Varys falling in step behind him.

“No one was supposed to get hurt…” Loras spoke quietly.

Tywin snapped around, “Pardon?”

Loras shook his head, tears clinging to his lashes, “I delivered the instructions to the Sparrow. Margaery told me how to find him, gave me the scroll to deliver. She told me the plan was to make it _look_ like an attempt on Lady Sansa’s life, but without actually taking any lives – not Lady Sansa’s, not her guards. An arrow would be fired in Sansa’s general direction. More would be fired at but miss her guards. One or two would hit her guards, but not in fatal ways…”

Tywin clenched his jaw, “Did you ask your sister _why_ she was having this done?”

Loras nodded weakly, “She told me no one respected her as Queen. That Sansa was stealing all the people’s love and admiration. She said after the _attack_ , you would force your wife to stay within the walls of the keep. Being less visible, the people would forget their love of Sansa, and Margaery would take up the mantle.”

“But?”

Loras squeezed his eyes shut, “But after the attack, Margaery was in a rage. So was I… I thought the Sparrows had defied orders and tried to kill not just Sansa but also Garlan. But Margaery’s rage was… _different_. Hers was tinged with guilt for what befell our brother. When I told her it wasn’t her fault, when I vowed to find and kill every last Sparrow, she confessed to me the truth. That her actual instructions to the Sparrows were to kill Lady Sansa, no matter who they had to hurt or kill to achieve their task. She hadn’t known Garlan would be with Sansa’s party that day…”

Loras opened his eyes, revealing a blend of guilt, sadness, and fear, “That’s why she was so distraught. That’s why she lost the child. She thought she had gotten our brother killed... She has always looked up to Garlan. While Margaery and I share a close friendship, and Margaery and Willas share common interests, it is Garlan she admires. At times I suspected she felt he was more of a father to her than our actual father… And that’s another reason she was angry. Garlan admires your wife, my lord. He would talk about how good Sansa was with the orphans, how smart she was, how kind, how generous. He said all these things as compliments to your wife, a woman he thought was Margaery’s friend. But in reality, Margaery only saw her as competition… Garlan’s well-meaning words felt like a betrayal to Margaery.”

Loras shook his head, “I was so mad when she told me the truth. I felt used, manipulated, deceived. But then she paid the price for her mistake and all was forgiven. And now, she has more than paid the price for her mistake…”

The boy sat there for a long time, continuing to shake his head as if he couldn’t understand his sister at all. There was nothing disingenuous about him in that moment. The emotions that played on his face minutes ago when he was weaving lies were now absent. His brown eyes looked equal parts guileless and doleful.

Tywin allowed him his time for contemplation. In truth, he needed it just as much. But eventually, it was he who broke the silence, “Did anyone else in your family know?”

Loras snorted dryly, “Clearly, Garlan didn’t know. Margaery would never trust our cousins with such information – they might lie for her, but they’d crumple under ten seconds of your scrutiny, Lord Hand. Same for our father. Margaery doesn’t trust him – not for this type of matter. Honestly, I’m surprised the servants had any suspicions…”

_They didn’t._

“…Margaery was more careful than that. But perhaps… I don’t know, perhaps being with child, being bedridden, she wasn’t in proper form.”

Another silence descended, and Tywin could feel Varys’ eyes boring into him. He cast the eunuch a sidelong glance. He could hear the unspoken question on the man’s lips.

Tywin sighed, “You understand I cannot trust you to be in the same city as my wife, no matter whether I believe that you meant her no harm.”

Loras nodded stoically.

“But I promised mercy in exchange for transparency. I will have more questions for you, namely about the Sparrows you met with. Where they were, what they looked like. But that can wait until tomorrow. Allow me to set your mind at ease, Ser Loras. I could easily have you thrown from this tower or impaled on your sword – make it look like suicide. In light of your mourning, I doubt any would find it hard to believe. But I am a man who prefers to err on the side of caution, so here is what we will do: You will request King Tommen release you from your Kingsguard vows. I will advise Tommen to grant your request. After your sister’s funeral you will return to Highgarden. Serve your brother well, Ser Loras, while remembering to whom you owe your life. If your father, cousins, or brother are suspicious about you leaving, tell them it is too painful to stay in this city without Margaery. Tell them you only joined the Kingsguard to protect her from Joffrey, then subsequently stayed at Margaery’s request. Tell them you want to go home. Tell them you _need_ to go home. Do you understand?”

Loras stared vacantly at the window, “It won’t be a lie, my lord. This city is…” his lip curled in contempt, “this city is rotten. I admire you and your wife for trying to fix it, but I’d be lying if I said I think you stand a chance. I told Margaery as much when she was so excited to become the next queen. I told her it wouldn’t make her happy. But she wanted it. I’m not sure she even knew _why_ she wanted it, but she did. She was adamant. She would have married the Stranger himself to make herself Queen.” Loras snorted bitterly, “Perhaps she did. Perhaps she promised her soul for the crown, only without realizing how soon she’d be made to pay up.”

The conversation had become deep, and Tywin did not like it. Deep analysis of one’s self and others should be a private affair. Tywin didn’t want to wonder about the motives of a conniver like Margaery Tyrell. He didn’t want to wonder who else he knew who shared her _affliction –_ the pursuit of power, for power’s sake. Such people were dangerous and – as Loras proved – unable to be regulated even by their closest friends and family.

Tywin said nothing. For the second time, he and Varys turned to leave, this time making it through the door. They strode in the same direction for some time, during which not a single word was spoken. It was only when they were about to part ways – Tywin heading toward the Tower of the Hand while Varys headed who knows where – that the eunuch spoke, “Well done, Lord Hand.” The bald man bowed more deeply than his trademark dip of the head and went about the rest of his day.

**Tyrion**

“Shireen is the only candidate worth discussing,” Tyrion repeated for the third time.

Sansa sighed, “I agree she is the front runner for me, but I still have my concerns.”

“Which are?” Tyrion held his hands out expectantly.

“Shireen is smart. _Very_ smart. She is well read. She has a good heart. But I think we all know that, _sometimes_ , a certain callousness is needed… an ability to make unpleasant but necessary decisions. Neither Tommen nor Shireen appears to have such an ability.”

Tywin nodded, “I agree. Trust is not an issue with Lady Shireen. I believe her affection for Sansa, you, and your brother is enough to keep her loyal. Rather, it’s the fact that she and Tommen will look weak. They’ll look like an easy target.”

Tyrion snorted, “Not while you’re here! Or while I’m here! Or while Uncle Kevan is here! We will make sure there is always someone here that can guide them in those decisions. Someone who the outside world will look at and know that the throne will _not_ be easy pickings.”

His father shook his head, very slightly, as if uncertain whether to agree or refute Tyrion’s point. In the end, he did the latter, “The idea is to have a king who’s respected in his own right. A king and queen that are feared and loved, or at least feared and respected.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes, “I’ve heard this lecture before, more times than I can count, Father. And while I don’t disagree, there are few people who can accomplish such a feat. Fewer still that can _maintain_ such a feat, and even fewer that can do both _and_ who _we_ trust with the position. You know, since apparently us three lions are choosing the next queen as if she’s a mare at a horse auction.”

Tywin’s jaw worked back and forth but Sansa intervened to diffuse the tension growing between father and son. Truly, Tyrion had no reason to want to annoy his father on this particular day. He supposed it was force of habit, not to mention a form of free entertainment.

“Please,” Sansa looked between both men, “Let’s go back over the options and work toward a short list by eliminating some of the options.”

“Fine,” Tywin spoke curtly, “Shireen should be on the short list, for loyalty and intelligence alone, and the fact that it would cement the Stormlands’ loyalty to Tommen.”

Sansa nodded, “I agree. Tyrion?”

He raised his goblet and Sansa scribbled Shireen’s name on a piece of parchment.

“For the same reason, Lady Janei should be on the list,” Sansa stated more than suggested.

Tywin shook his head, “Kevan does not wish to see his daughter on the throne, and I won’t force him.”

“Might he change his mind?” Tyrion asked.

Tywin glared at him, “ _Kevan_ doesn’t even want to be in this stinking city; I cannot see him sentencing his daughter to the same fate. Besides, Janei is two and ten, unlikely to safely bear children for three more years at minimum. Tommen needs an heir _now_.”

“Indeed,” Tyrion raised his brows, “At the rate kings and queens are dying around here…”

That one earned him glares from both of his companions, but where Sansa’s was reproving, his father’s was livid.

Tyrion raised his hands in supplication, “Fine; Janei is off the list, unless of course it takes us three years to deliberate this matter. Let’s talk about the Manderly girl… which one is it?”

“Wylla,” Sansa nodded, “She is perhaps the most loyal person to House Stark outside of House Stark. She is a brave girl. While a second daughter of a northern vassal would ordinarily not be a candidate for the queenship, her stature has been elevated since Lord Manderly was appointed acting Warden of the North.”

Tywin nodded, “Indeed. What we don’t know is whether she has any aptitude for ruling. Based on my own appraisals of the girl, she’d lead men into battle before sitting behind a desk. And there is also the issue of age – she is six years older than Tommen.”

Tyrion shrugged, “So was Margaery.”

“True, but that was a special circumstance. Margaery was wed – however briefly – to Joffrey. There is precedent for a man taking his brother’s betrothed or wife in the event she becomes a widow. It happened between Ned and Catelyn Stark after Brandon’s death. It is considered a way of honoring the obligations of your brother. But with Wylla Manderly we have no such excuse. Every other eligible maiden in the realm would see it as a slight. I should say, their _fathers_ will.”

Sansa nodded, “I agree… and with us having to carefully navigate the Tyrell situation, we can’t afford such a slight. Let’s put her name on the list so as not to rule her out, but I’d consider her a last resort.”

Tyrion took a deep sip of wine, “Might as well talk about that _Tyrell situation_ , now that you’ve mentioned it.”

His father rolled his eyes, a gesture he abhorred in others. Tyrion hid his smile behind his goblet. Despite Tywin’s obvious distaste he responded to Tyrion’s suggestion, “Elinor Tyrell – who is four years older than Tommen. She’s been betrothed to Alyn Ambrose for over a year. No doubt her father – Theodore Tyrell – hoped to broker a better match by leveraging Margaery’s queenship. Though with Theodore himself so far down the line of inheritance, no better offers have presented, it would appear.”

Tyrion winced, “That’s quite a drop off. From the only daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Mander to a distant cousin of said daughter?”

“Indeed. But it would keep us in the Tyrell’s good graces. As would marrying Tommen to Alla Tyrell, who is also four years older than him. She is the eldest daughter of Leo Tyrell, a first cousin of Lord Mace. There is also Alysanne Bulwer, who is of an age with Tommen but is already the Lady of her house, since her father and mother have both passed. Her house is small, but she has Tyrell blood through her mother. And finally there is Megga Tyrell, the only daughter of Lord Olymer. Also four years older than Tommen.”

Tyrion chuckled, “Might as well toss a coin amongst the four…”

Sansa teetered her hand, “Megga leaves something to be desired, from a… physical attractiveness standpoint. I know nothing of Lady Alysane, but there is obviously a benefit to gaining another house through this marriage – however small it may be. Between Elinor, Alla, and Megga, only Elinor has only exhibited any sigh of maturity or authority, in my opinion.”

Tyrion nodded, “Well that certainly counts for a lot. So shall we add Elinor Tyrell and Alysanne Bulwer to the list and eliminate Ladies Alla and Megga?”

The trio exchanged glances before nodding in unity.

“Anyone else?” Tyrion peered at his father.

Tywin sighed, “Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island. She is the youngest of the late Lady Maege’s many daughters, but now second in line since all of her older sisters, except Alysane, perished during the war.”

Sansa nodded, “The benefit there is that she is only a few months older than Tommen, she has experience ruling, and she is ceaselessly loyal to House Stark. The problem, however, is two-fold: one, I doubt she has any interest in living in the capital. Two, the Tyrells would most definitely take it as a slight.”

“Fucking Tyrells,” Tywin mumbled beneath his breath. “I don’t trust any of them to wear the crown, and we have nothing _new_ to gain by giving it to them – only the continuation of our alliance. Unfortunately, we cannot jeopardize that. We _need_ them – at least for the foreseeable future.”

It sounded like Tywin had made his decision, though it was clear none of them were happy with it. Minutes passed in mutually contemplative silence.

“Correction,” Sansa spoke, her eyes narrowing and looking far off, the way they did whenever she was hatching an idea, “We need _The Reach_.”

An unprompted chill ran through Tyrion’s body.

Tywin turned to face her, matching the intensity of her eyes, “The Tyrells _control_ the Reach. And they will do so unless and until someone usurps them; as we’ve already established, there is no shortage of kinfolk. If Mace died, Willas would officially become Lord Protector. If Willas died, it would go to Garlan… even if all of Mace’s children died it would go to Mace’s next sibling, and so on and so forth.” Tywin shook his head and snorted condescendingly, “So unless you’re proposing a coup, I suggest— Wait…” he sat forward abruptly, “You’re thinking of Randyll Tarly’s daughter…”

Sansa grinned, “Randyll Tarly distinguished himself during the war. We sell it as a way to honor _both_ the Tarly and Tyrell families. After all, the Tyrells consider Lord Tarly among their most loyal bannermen… I dare say, if Mace has a fraction of his late mother’s cunning, he will see it as an opportunity to influence the realm through Lord Tarly and his daughter…”

Tyrion chuckled, “When in reality, it would indebt Randyll Tarly to _us._ Perhaps we could even give the man Uncle Kevan’s seat on the small council, let Kevan return home to Dorna.”

Tywin snorted, and for once it sounded more amused than derisive, “If only we could _all_ return home to Dorna…”

Tyrion smiled wistfully, though he’d never had the same love for his homeland as his father clearly did. But he knew the place called to Tywin Lannister like a siren. Casterly Rock was in the Old Lion’s blood and bones. Moreover, it was a place where he was in complete control. The attack on Sansa? _Never_ would have happened in the villages beyond the Rock; certainly not in a time of peace. In the Westerlands, Lady Lannister could walk naked and unguarded through the streets; no raper would dare to so much as look at her. 

His father took a deep breath, seemingly to clear his melancholy thoughts, “We should take some time to think this over; make certain it is the best option. Some of the other ladies on our list – Shireen, Wylla Manderly… we might begin to consider Lannister men or sons of our vassal lords with whom they can be matched. Ensure the continued loyalty of the Stormlands and the North. Perhaps also a marriage of one of the Tyrell cousins to a Lannister cousin – an additional stitch in the fabric of that alliance.”

Tyrion and Sansa nodded.

Tyrion was surprised when a few moments later Tywin called their little meeting to a close. He had expected his father to have some news to share about the investigation into the attack on Sansa and her guards. In fact, Tyrion was surprised the matter hadn’t been mentioned at all. He had spent much time with his father in the past few days, and it was clear the issue had been weighing on him greatly. Yet now the weight seemed to have been lifted completely, as if…

Tyrion stopped mid-stride and was unable to keep the words from rolling off his tongue, “The attack on Sansa… it was…” Tyrion knew better than to speak the name out loud, mere feet from the door behind which several guards stood.

The answer he received was a single nod from his father while Sansa bit her bottom lip.

Tyrion nodded, “I suppose I don’t want to know…”

Tywin shook his head slowly. It was confirmation enough for what Tyrion now realized he’d already known… Sansa asked for poison the day after her attack. The next morning the queen was dead. Tyrion let out a chuckle, though he felt little mirth behind it, “And they say thorns are sharp…”

**Sansa**

For the second night in a row Sansa and Tywin lay entwined in bed after a long day of moves and countermoves. Her clever husband got Loras to confess his role in the murder plot, though Sansa agreed with Tywin’s assessment that Loras hadn’t known the full extent of the planned attack. It filled Sansa with pride and superiority to know how easily the Tyrell siblings crumbled – Margaery because she overestimated her own cunning and underestimated Sansa’s; Loras because guilt was sitting heavily on his shoulders, bending his back to the breaking point.

Sansa giggled to herself which pulled Tywin from his own musings, whatever they may be. “What’s so funny, wife?”

“A rose’s thorns are sharps, but their stems are fragile.”

Tywin smiled slightly, clearly understanding her meaning.

Without intending to, Sansa put herself in Margaery’s position. She imagined herself being confronted about some crime she was believed to be involved in. Perhaps that Jon was also involved in, like Loras was involved in Margaery’s crime. Or Jaime, or Tyrion. _Or Tywin._

Sansa would take any incriminating knowledge to the grave, no matter how painful the journey was made to be. There was no worldly pain one could inflict that would cause her to betray someone she loved. That that group now included quite a few Lannisters was a revelation she didn’t know how to process. Every time she discovered a new depth to her love and loyalty to the family that was not so long ago her enemy, she wondered what it said about her. Was she a traitor? Had Joffrey been right all along when he said she had traitor’s blood, only his words weren’t accurate of her then but rather a premonition of what her future held?

“What are you thinking, Sansa?” Tywin asked gently. She was surprised he’d noticed her apparent restlessness; he himself had been lost in his thoughts often since the day of her attack.

She leaned up on one elbow so she was looking down at her husband. She had never been able to deny he had a striking face, even a handsome one. But what used to be begrudging appreciation was now genuine fondness. Each line in his face held a story – a story of sorrow, of anger, of happiness; of battles won and lost, even if only in his heart. And despite what everyone else thought, the Great Lion _did_ have a heart… it beat strong and true beneath Sansa’s fingers.

“I’m thinking that not even Ser Ilyn could get me to confess anything that might hurt our family. A year in the Black Cells? I’d bite my own tongue off before speaking words of betrayal. Am I arrogant for thinking this? Am I arrogant for thinking that Margaery and Loras are spineless? Will my arrogance get me killed? Get _you_ killed?”

He stared at her thoughtfully before shaking his head, “Have I ever told you what Tyrion once said about you? How he compared you to a winter rose?”

She shook her head, unsure he understood her meaning if he was about to compare her to a rose.

“It was after… after your mother and brother died. He came to me to make a point; one I admittedly didn’t appreciate at the time. He said summer roses are beautiful but fragile – quick to wilt and die at the slightest nip in the air. But winter roses can be trampled, can be cut down to the root… they can go dormant for years. And when they come back, they are that much more resilient. _Indestructible_ was the word he used, if my memory serves.”

Sansa smiled, “I’m not sure that’s true, though I understand the metaphor.”

“I don’t care if it’s true. That night you were attacked, and when I saw you…” Tywin swallowed, and his next words were spoken in a deeper, rougher voice, “When I saw you lying there, battered, bloodied, and bruised, I thought of a winter rose, standing tall despite the whipping winds and driving snow. You didn’t look fragile in that moment. You didn’t look like some trampled flower that would never rise again.”

Sansa thought back to that time in her life. She remembered being called before Joffrey in court, subjected to his taunting over the deaths of her mother and brother. She remembered pushing away her pain, locking it in some corner of her mind where she’d never be able to find it. That corner had become quite cluttered by then, but it had served her well. Probably saved her life.

Joffrey’s attack was nothing but a hazy memory of a dream; something she didn’t truly feel because she locked all of herself in that corner. She left him nothing but an empty body to abuse.

But in hindsight, that defense would not have held forever. If Tywin, who was nothing but her captor at the time, hadn’t provided an escape, who knows what would have happened… Likely all the suppressed fury and hurt would have exploded. She would have raged, likely at Joffrey. Or there would have been an implosion; her entire being would become trapped within that corner, and on the outside she’d be nothing but a shell that resembled what was once Sansa Stark. Either way, she’d be dead now – in body, in spirit, or in both. If her captor hadn’t become her savior…

Of their own volition, her fingers grazed up to trace the crescent lines that buffered his mouth. They were deeper than when she first saw him. In fact, she vaguely remembered once thinking he had no smile lines at all, indicating a life without joy. At the time it gave her some small consolation that no matter how much wealth and power the man had he’d never have happiness.

The same observation could be made about the fine lines around his eyes, the ones that appeared on a young face only when the person was smiling widely or deepened on an old face under the same circumstances. She traced those, too, glad to see they were now quite visible, even if only upon close inspection. Tywin had smiled on occasion since taking Sansa as his wife, and that gave her consolation for an entirely different reason.

The deepest trenches were those spanning his forehead and the ones perpendicular between his brows. They told the story of an oft-troubled mind belonging to a man who scowled more than smiled, who furrowed his brow to express displeasure, who raised his eyebrows to express condescension.

Yet the sum total was a face that Sansa somehow had come to find as handsome as any she’d ever seen. Where others saw anger in his face, Sansa knew behind that expression was always a sense of being _wronged._ In his own way, wrongly or rightly, he did what he thought was best for his family and his people; and when others got in his way, they met his wrath. The notion used to terrify her; now it thrilled her.

She knew his green eyes were fixed on her face as she explored him, though she didn’t meet them directly until now. They were clear and sharp like those of a man at least twenty years his junior.

A twitch of a grin tugged up one corner of his mouth, “Your courser’s getting old. Time to sell him to the butcher and get yourself a colt.”

Sansa dropped her mouth open in mock affront, “The butcher?! Have a little faith in me, husband. At worst, I’d put you out to stud.”

“Hmm… doesn’t sound so bad… Spend my days making mares out of fillies? I could get used to that.”

She smiled, “Shall we stop playing this game and spend the rest of our lives making the finest foals the realm has ever seen?”

“As tempting as that is, I rather like watching you play the game. Not every day one gets to see a master at work.”

Sansa shook her head, “I am _not_ a master.”

“You are,” he spoke definitively, “and the fact that you don’t even know it makes you all the more incredible.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, “How much wine did you have with supper?”

He chuckled and they both seemed content to let the subject drop, but it continued to unravel behind her eyes. His praise, even as she rebuffed it, made her feel butterflies in her belly. Nothing made her feel as whole as Tywin’s admiration, and yet that made all the concerns she was trying to stifle float to the surface. She looked back at his face, retracing the lines as if they’d offer respite from her woes.

But, of course, they didn’t. And she felt certain the only person that could give her an honest answer to her unpleasant question was the man prone beneath her. She was stroking the delicate skin halfway between his beard line and his eye when she voiced it, “Am I a fool for loving you?”

Her eyes detected minute signs of his body going rigid. Her question surprised him and displeased him, but she could not take it back.

After long and deathly silent moments he sighed, “Probably, but not for the reasons you think.”

She moved to lie beside him but continued facing him, hoping he’d elaborate. With another sigh, he did, “You still worry you’re a traitor to your house by embracing the Lannister name. By loving a Lannister husband; by loving your Lannister goodsons; by entrusting yourself to the protection of the fearsome Lannister Hound…” he turned his head to face her, “Am I correct?”

She nodded against the pillow.

He reached for her hand and pulled it toward his mouth, kissing her palm, “You’ve done more for House Stark than most of the deceased kin whose judgment you fear. Your father wasn’t thinking of his house, of his family, when he sounded the accusations that started the war. He was in the territory of lions and stags, with two young daughters, at the time. Apologies for speaking ill of your father, but a man’s first duty is to his family. There are few things that I value before pride, Sansa; our daughter is one of them. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She nodded, because she _did_ understand. When she became old enough to understand all the events that set off the war, she wracked her brain trying to understand why her father would confront Cersei Lannister with his accusations of her infidelity. If it was so important to get the truth out, he should have done so after returning to Winterfell. Make the lioness come to the land of wolves if she wished to retaliate. The guilt Sansa once had for her own contribution to that fiasco – for defying her father when he had insisted they return home, had largely abated. In hindsight she could recognize that he was the parent, she the child. If he had to have Jory Cassel tie her up and throw her on the back of a horse, it should have been done. Instead, in loving his daughters, Ned Stark exposed them to grave danger. Having her own child now, Sansa understood that protecting your children must come first, even if it means hurting their feelings, even if it means losing their love. A father protects even when he gets no thanks for it. And a mother is no different.

Tywin continued, “And the war your brother waged? Truthfully, I do not fault him, but like your father he put personal pride before family. He lost the loyalty of Houses Karstark and Bolton because of it. He lost the support of the Freys. All to prove he was an honorable man, but honorable to _whom?_ To the Lannister hostages that were killed instead of his own sister held hostage in the capital? To the girl he impregnated out of wedlock instead of the girl to whom he was promised?”

Tywin sighed, “And your mother. I admire her protective instincts, and I see those same instincts in you, Sansa, but she kidnapped the son of Tywin Lannister, the man whose armies can crush entire kingdoms, because of a flimsy accusation.”

Sansa had heard that story from Lord Varys some time ago… how Littlefinger weaved a tale about Tyrion Lannister winning a dagger from him – the dagger later used in the thwarted attack on Bran’s life. At the time she hadn’t understood why Varys would impart such knowledge, and the portly eunuch had smiled sadly, _“Because, my dear Lady Sansa, it is often overlooked how a few words – even if lies – can start a war.”_

It was a lesson she took to heart. Littlefinger had planted a seed which overnight sprouted into a mighty oak tree, with limbs stretching from the Stormlands to the North, from the Westerlands to the capital, dropping acorns on all the lands beneath its canopy, which in turn sprouted up battles and death, treachery and deceit, turning vassal against liege lord, brother against brother, niece against uncle.

“I understand, Tywin. But if I’m not a traitor to my people, then why do you say I’m a fool for loving you?”

Tywin took a deep breath, her hand rising and falling on his broad chest.

“I’m not a good man, Sansa. And it never truly bothered me to admit this. In fact, it was a point of pride to be among the few who understand there isn’t a place in this world for _conscience_. We do our duty; we do what we think is right for ourselves and those we are responsible for. Some incidental damage is unavoidable, and no benefit comes from losing sleep over that damage.”

“But?” she probed.

“But perhaps… perhaps it isn’t so black and white. I had been driving myself mad wondering if the things I’ve done… the people who have been hurt by my actions, directly or indirectly… if that inspired the attack on your life.”

“But it didn’t… it was—”

“I know. But learning that truth hasn’t shut down my worries. I have enemies, Sansa. Probably more than I’m aware of. Those loyal to me are loyal out of blood, fear, or the knowledge that I am a capable ruler. I’ve never been _beloved_ like you Starks, or the Tyrells. And those who are _not_ loyal to me are much more passionate in their sentiments… they _hate_ me, Sansa. Do not believe for one moment that Oberyn Martell wouldn’t love to impale me on his poisoned spear if he could get away with it. Just because he acted civilly toward me at the Royal Wedding doesn’t mean he feels a shred of fondness. And it isn’t just the Martells with their decades-old grudge that they’ve never acted on... What of the enemies I’ve made recently?”

Tywin rubbed a hand down his face, and Sansa could see just how much this was weighing on him, and just how difficult this confession was for him.

“I didn’t tell you one of the things the Sparrow said when I interrogated him… He spoke of cruel deeds committed in his homeland by Ser Gregor and his men. He spoke of the defilement and murder of his sisters. He claimed to have no animosity toward _you_ Sansa, but the idea of how your death would hurt me was enough for him to make peace with the distasteful job he was hired to fulfill. And he is _one_ man. How many others might try to harm you or Joelyn to make me suffer? The idea of you paying for my crimes…” Tywin’s voice trailed off as he shook his head.

Sansa once again leaned over him, needing her words to be taken to heart, “You cannot undo the past, Tywin. What’s done is done – whether it happened thirty years ago or yesterday. You fear the people’s hatred for you will manifest in acts against me? Then turn that hatred into _love._ Atone for what you can, compensate for what you can’t.”

“Atone how? Compensate how?”

She cupped his cheek, “Help those who have suffered in your name.”

“We already send aid to the Riverlands.”

“Do more than send gold to the Lords. Do the smallfolk even know it’s Lannister gold that is sustaining them?”

Tywin shrugged, “I should hope…”

“Don’t leave anything to _hope_. It’s as useless as prayer, in my experience. We make our own destiny, Tywin. We could travel to the Riverlands, set up shelters and programs like we have here in King’s Landing. Bring laborers and farmers to lend. Make our aid more visible, more tangible.”

Tywin nodded slowly, “What else?”

She bit her lip, “The two examples you just gave me. The Sparrow… and Oberyn Martell…”

He took a deep breath, “I know… _Ser Gregor_ …”

“He is evil, Tywin,” she hissed, “If I thought I stood a chance at succeeding, I’d kill him my with bare hands.”

Tywin’s brow furrowed in confusion, “Why? What cause do you have for such personal animosity?”

She shook her head, “It matters not. What matters is that by allowing the man to live you are condoning his actions.”

“I can’t exactly try him for his crimes; his defense will be that he was acting under orders. _My_ orders.”

Sansa bit her tongue; the times it was hardest to reconcile her love for her husband with her own set of morals were the times she thought on the crimes that had been committed in his name. In the past, her strategy had been to maintain ignorance; to assume Tywin’s orders were never so heinous, or that he wasn’t aware of the extent of depravity being perpetrated by his men. But she knew how smart he was, how well informed he was. It was getting harder and harder to pretend he didn’t know or – worse – that he didn’t give those commands explicitly.

Sansa shook her head, “I didn’t say anything about a trial. His execution can be a quiet affair… perhaps carried out in Dorne?” She cocked one eyebrow.

Tywin nodded, “I have considered this in the past. The problem is it will make it appear as if I feel _indebted_ to them somehow.”

She nodded, “I understand. Perhaps we can think on this another time.” In truth, though she was the one to raise the topic of Ser Gregor, she was eager to drop it, along with all the questions it birthed.

She must have gone quiet for too long as she waged an internal battle against all those pesky questions. She flinched when Tywin stroked her shoulder, out of surprise, not fear. But Tywin’s eyes looked hurt by her body’s involuntary reaction.

“Why have you never asked me for the truth, Sansa?”

She knew what he was referring to. It was sometimes as if he could read her thoughts by peering into her eyes, or simply touching her skin.

She shrugged, not quite knowing the answer, “I suppose I don’t want to hate you.”

He nodded though the disappointment was plain on his face. Perhaps he had hoped she would say that it wasn’t necessary to know the truth, because nothing would stop her from loving him.

It frightened her to realize that his hope might be truer than the answer she gave. Could anything make her hate him? The man who gave her a child? Who gave her power without fear that she would wield it against him? The man who loved her so completely? Who gave her pleasure she never knew the human body could experience? Who relinquished his legendary control to her delicate hands? Who entrusted her with his heart even though he knew quite well the pain he’d endure if she broke it?

Could any of his past sins make her stop loving him?

She wanted to say _yes_ but didn’t like to lie to herself.

With a sigh she laid back down on her side, still facing her husband. In desperate need of a new subject and knowing full well that sleep would evade her if she attempted it now, Sansa spoke again, “Tommen is… unhappy.”

Tywin snorted, “He has a tender heart, but he will persevere.”

“It isn’t that. He told me he is afraid. Afraid of ruling. Afraid of someday having to make the decisions that you and Tyrion and I have had to make. He said he doesn’t enjoy his duty and he isn’t predisposed toward it.”

“He will learn.”

“That’s what I said, but you and I both know that some things aren’t learned… they’re simply known.”

Tywin snorted again, “Like how to infect a fleet full of raiders then destroy said fleet with wildfire?”

She swatted his chest lightly, “Or how to flood a mine full of hundreds of people?”

He grinned, “Or how to seal the mine and walk away instead of flooding it?”

She chuckled, “You remember that?”

Tywin nodded one time, “I do… it’s the day I decided I’d make you my wife.”

Sansa’s laughter dried up like a worm stuck on cobblestone. Her mouth fell open, which only seemed to amuse her lion, who was particularly jovial all of the sudden.

“What?” he asked with feigned innocence. “Ruthless,” he kissed her knuckles. “Practical,” he flipped her hand over and kissed her palm. “Clever,” he trailed his lips down to kiss the inside of her wrist. “They’re all qualities I find highly appealing.” He concluded his speech with a kiss to her collarbone.

As he’d turned to his side, she could feel his arousal against her hip, but there were matters to settle first. “What if Tommen never gets any better?”

Tywin, who at times like this could be as narrowly focused as any man, continued kissing her neck, “That’s what Hands and advisors are for,” he spoke conclusively.

“But you speak about going to Casterly Rock. I’ve never seen it, but already I know I will love it like I’ve never loved the capital.”

That got his full attention, though she couldn’t tell if her words pleased or saddened him. He nodded, “You _will_ love it. I can close my eyes and see you there,” he squeezed his eyes shut, and she knew he was doing just that. “You’re in a flowing gold dress, the sea breeze twirling your skirts and your hair. Joelyn is standing by your side, holding your hand… hardly coming up to your thigh. Another babe rests on your hip, its chubby little knee hooked over the swell of your belly. You’re transfixed by the beauty of the waves, the glimmer of gold on the turquoise waters.”

Sansa smiled at the image he painted and refrained from making a joke about him turning her into a broodmare.

“Then, some years later,” he continued, “the children are still relatively young. They’re swarming around your skirts on the beach. They’re happy, and you’re happy. They play in the sand while you watch on, a smile fixed on your lips. There are no guards within arm’s length of you. You’re just… free.”

He opened his eyes again, and there was a melancholy in them that ripped at her heart and made tears form in her lashes. He wanted to give her a _home_ … a place she could feel safe and happy. A place where she didn’t have to scheme and lie, a place where she could simply rule and raise their children, with her lion by her side.

She smiled through her tears, “You’ve described the lioness and the cubs… where is the lion in this fantasy?”

He shrugged, “It doesn’t matter… It doesn’t matter whether he’s watching from a few paces away or whether he’s gone from this world. Sansa, hear me well: there is much I hope to accomplish, much of which involves the entire realm at large, and my well-meaning but naïve grandson. But if all I accomplish before I leave this world is giving you another cub or two and installing you at the Rock, then I will consider my final years to have been a success.”

The tears rolled now, over the bridge of her nose and across her left cheek until the fabric of her pillowcase sucked them away.

“Tywin, if that is what you aspire to most of all, then what are we doing here? Leave it to Tyrion and Jaime to protect and guide Tommen. No one will ever by _you_ , Tywin, and you won’t live forever. At some point Tommen will need to learn to rule without you. Perhaps Kevan will stay, after all… and if we arrange this match with Talla Tarly, then he will have Lord Randyll here as well.”

Tywin shook his head, “He isn’t ready yet. He needs to at least be able to tell when the counsel he is getting is sound versus delivered with an agenda… He needs to know more; it can’t be just Tyrion against the Tyrells. Kevan won’t stay forever, and Jaime has no mind for politics.”

She frowned, “And what if he is never ready? Then will you abandon this dream of living out the rest of your days at the Rock?”

She could tell she was testing his patience. They debated often, but there were still times when he wanted his word to be final, and when she was unwilling to accept it.

Tywin rolled to his back and rubbed his brow, “Why could Cersei not have produced _one_ son with an aptitude for ruling? Or at least taught them from a young age! What was she thinking?”

Sansa shook her head, “I doubt she _was_ thinking. Cersei thought her children were perfect by the mere fact that they came out of her womb.”

Tywin groaned, “All the lessons I instilled in my children… All Jaime took away from them was how to win a battle. All Cersei took away was some sense of Lannister _entitlement_ instead of Lannister pride. And Tyrion… well I can admit now that he learned some of those lessons, but too often he doesn’t take things seriously. Life is a joke to him. A party.”

“He is serious when it matters,” Sansa defended her friend.

“Perhaps,” Tywin shrugged. “But can you picture Tommen on the throne, with Tyrion by his side? The vultures will be circling the moment I step foot out of the Crownlands.”

“I don’t know… Tyrion _has_ gained a reputation for using wildfire...”

“Which won’t work against an enemy that sieges the Red Keep by land.”

“…And he does have a dragon now… or had you forgotten?”

“Again, only useful if the enemy attacks by sea… or if Tyrion is willing to burn his own men along with his enemy’s. And have _you_ forgotten that Daenerys’ loyalty to use is tentative at best? The pursuit of the Crown pitted Renly and Stannis Baratheon against each other; do you think it wouldn’t pit Daenerys against the half-brother she didn’t even know until the past year?”

Sansa refrained from rolling her eyes. She wouldn’t tell Tywin that she was 90% certain that Daenerys and Tyrion were sleeping together – or rather _had been_ before Daenerys left for Dragonstone with Ser Kevan. Daenerys’ loyalty to her and Tywin might be tentative, but Sansa suspected the woman was _very_ loyal to Tyrion.

Then again, Tyrion might find a way to ruin that; after all, his proclivity for whores was widely known. Perhaps it was time for a _mother-son_ chat…

Tywin sighed, “It’s not that I don’t want to go home, Sansa… not a day goes by that I don’t miss the very _air_ at Casterly Rock. But—”

“I understand,” she sighed, “though I wonder, since you’re so concerned with the throne, why you’ve never claimed it for yourself.”

Tywin snorted, “You and the rest of the realm wonder, but haven’t I already told you? Why would I claim the throne when it means staying here? Beyond that, the damned thing will bring me no peace. Someone will always want to take it. And old Aegon may have known how to conquer, but he was _shite_ at picking defensible locations for a castle.”

Sansa smiled at Tywin’s rare use of profanity. She associated the word more with Sandor than Tywin, and that thought forced a giggle to slip out.

Tywin offered a half-hearted scowl, “It’s true. The coast is too flat here; nothing like the craggy cliffs of the Eyrie or Casterly Rock that are all but impossible to scale. There are no water barriers to create a moat like you have at Riverrun and the Crossing. The castle can be sieged on three sides by land and one side by sea. So what if it’s a fortress within a fortress? Once any attackers get through the outer gates, the inner gates will buy you nothing but time.”

Sansa frowned, “But you always say how safe the Red Keep is; how it’s one of the safest castles in Westeros…”

“That is true, when it has at least ten thousand men defending it. What did your father tell you – that 500 men could hold Winterfell against ten thousand? The same can’t be said about the Red Keep. It can be said about Moat Cailin, the Dreadfort… Nor do we have any natural defenses – not the hills of Ashemark, the swamps of Greywater Watch, the snows of Last Hearth, the mountains of Blackhaven…”

Sansa loved these moments when Tywin shared his impressive knowledge. Of course, Sansa had learned about all the great and minor houses when she was a girl, but never from a militaristic standpoint. The information Tywin divulged now was much more practical than her Septa’s lessons – memorizing the sigil and house words of every noble family. She hadn’t put any of that knowledge to use yet, and doubted she ever would, except perhaps to make small talk during a feast. But what Tywin was imparting would definitely be useful information, sooner or later.

Despite her interest in the topic, it was past midnight and Sansa’s eyelids were growing heavy. She yawned against Tywin’s arm, eliciting a chuckle from her husband, “Am I boring you to sleep, wife?”

She shook her head, rubbing the tip of her nose against his arm, “No… it’s actually quite interesting. But I’m getting sleepy.”

He hummed, “You’ve had an eventful few days.”

She laughed softly, “That’s an understatement.”


End file.
